Homecoming
by Madrigal
Summary: **Complete** Christine is alone in the world with a small daughter. Her friends the Girys take the child in as Christine seeks her fortune, but all turns to a search for the little girl when she goes missing at the Opera.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**

This story does not really belong to me. I have debated de-archiving it on but it has gotten positive responses from readers; therefore, I will leave it up until such time as its original author (Jennifer Hinds) asks me to remove it.

My part in the story's creation was one of a beta-reader, editor and finally "guest contributor" – I wrote Chapter 9 and a few other scenes throughout. This story is not archived anywhere else and no copyright infringement is intended.

Reviews are welcome, but since the story is indexed with my other works, the notification will come to me. Anyone wishing to contact the story's writer should do so via email to mllecdaae at yahoo dot com.

HJS, 3/22/05

* * *

**Homecoming**

by Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 1**

Christine, the Vicomtesse de Chagny, was taking a leisurely tea in the garden of the villa her husband had rented for the summer and watching as the late afternoon sunlight played lighthearted games amongst the well-tended foliage. At her feet, a child of six primped and played with a large-eyed porcelain doll whose dress matched her own – Elaine, the young couple's daughter. For a quiet moment, perfect happiness settled upon Christine: with the sun in her hair and her beloved child close at hand, she had all she could ask for in the world.

But her idyll was not to be uninterrupted, or her happiness enduring. Suddenly, and with uncharacteristic purpose, her husband came striding out of the house and down the garden path.

"Christine, may I speak to you?" Raoul asked.

At once Christine could sense that something was terribly amiss, and though she knew she could not refuse such a blunt request, she was anxiously reluctant to rise from her chair. Remaining seated, she replied with forced good nature, "Of course you may, Raoul. What is it about?"

"I would prefer that we discussed the matter indoors, privately." There was no mistaking the ice in his tone now, and Christine wondered at her being so immune to its sharp edges – but it was not impossible to understand. Over the past several years of their marriage, the only thing that seemed to be dwindling faster than Raoul's patience was his former devotion to her. Where once he had never wanted to leave her side, she hardly saw him now; no longer did she receive from him any words that might be construed as kind.

Resigning herself to the eventuality of an unpleasant exchange, she forced her tone light for her child's sake. "Elaine, hadn't you best go to the music room? Your tutor will be here soon and you have not practiced since his last visit."

"Yes, mama," Elaine answered with a toss of her golden hair. Taking up her doll by one hand, she scampered off between the hedges.

Once Elaine had disappeared through the French doors, Christine rose and at Raoul's side began the long stroll toward the house. Glancing furtively in his direction, she noted once again the change in his face that she had seen develop in the last few years of their marriage. Wealth and leisure, it seemed, had taken a far greater toll on him than might be expected. He was no longer the sweet young man that she had fallen in love with at the margin of the sea and at the tender age of thirteen; today he was stern and almost cruel, even to people whom he had known all of his life. Gone was the Raoul who had taken joy in watching Elaine play the piano or display her drawings proudly before her papa. Only months ago he had grown so angry at Elaine's insistence that he look away from his paper to watch her dancing a little step she had imagined, that he had ejected the child from the room altogether and requested, very tersely, that Christine keep her away from him as much as possible.

As they walked, he did not offer her his arm, nor even remain beside her; his back led her towards the house, and he said no word to her until they reached it. Opening the door with mock courtesy, he spoke a few acidic words. "After you, Vicomtesse."

"Thank you, Raoul," she replied cautiously, narrowing her eyes.

As they swept up the stairs, each footfall was punctuated by the notes Elaine's scales echoing from the music room below. Christine felt her heart beating faster; Raoul was leading the way to the room he had set up as his office. She had never been allowed to go in there before – he had made it quite clear to her upon their arrival at this rented house that she was not to meddle with it, nor allow Elaine to enter. He had gone so far as to keep the door locked – yes, she had once tried the handle, just to see. She had rather been expecting he would do so, so to learn it was no real surprise.

Now, as he fumbled for the key, Christine was able to draw close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. This, like his coldness and his secrecy, was a small detail with which she had become all too familiar over the last several years. But having seen quite a bit of other aristocrats in her time as an aristocrat's wife, she had always counted herself among the luckier ones. Raoul was rarely raving drunk, at least at home where she or Elaine would be forced to see him in such a state; he preferred to venture out to gentleman's clubs and other venues of ill repute to sate his urge for vice. The deterioration of her husband's character had therefore been the source of some personal distress, but never any real harm, to Christine.

Finally, Raoul located the necessary key and, throwing the door open, motioned her to a chair by the window. Moving slowly towards it, she cast her glance around the room, taking in what it was that he kept under lock and key; she could see nothing but absolute disorder. Letters and bills were scattered about, covering the desk and part of the floor. The wastebasket was overflowing with drafts of letters and memorandums. Upon reaching the seat to which he had directed her, Christine added to a growing pile on the windowsill the papers she was forced to remove from the chair's cushion.

Settling herself into the chair, she allowed her glance to drift away from the room's chaos and out the window, across the lovely country landscape that spread itself out before her like a feast. The late summer sunlight touched the land gently, lending to it a faint golden glow. Not far from where she had so lately sat in the garden, a little pool refracted stray beams of light, a few of which bounced through this second-floor window and made little dappled patterns on the far wall. It was the only natural thing in the room.

From his station behind his desk, Raoul cleared his throat; but Christine was reluctant to leave the beauty of the prospect for what promised to be some sort of argument with him. When she did not turn her head, he grew angry and shattered the silence with a few simple words. "Christine, I want a divorce."

Her head turned now, of its own accord; she must have made quite a sight as her mind went blank and her mouth opened. "No ... no..." she managed to stutter in reply, "you can't be serious."

"Yes, I am," he said grimly, setting his mouth into a hard, cold line, "and I _will_ have it. I want you and the child out of this house as soon as possible."

Christine felt positively ill. Of course she had known the marriage was not perfect, and that Raoul was changed since they were wed; but as a good Catholic, she had never stopped believing in the vows they had made to each other. Finally the room seemed to stop spinning, and she recovered the ability to speak. "I – I thought you loved me, Raoul. We've been married seven years …"

"Seven _boring _years, darling," he interrupted her. Rising from his desk chair and stepping towards one of the other windows, he half-muttered to himself, "I can't believe it's lasted this long."

Dumbfounded and almost ashamed, Christine found herself unable to meet her husband's stony gaze. Her hands stretched and clasped together uselessly, and in her distraction she began to twist her engagement ring, which she still wore on the same finger as her wedding band. It was an ostentatious jewel, almost obscene in comparison to the first one Raoul had given her …

The one she had been relieved of, the night of the masquerade.

Christine's initial reaction of surprise at Raoul's sudden announcement was rapidly eclipsed by one of indignation as she began to reflect on their marriage and the events which had led up to it. It would be untrue to say that she had never thought of Erik since, but she had always appeased her confused emotions by reasoning that Raoul had been the better choice, the _safer_ choice, and the one most likely to secure her future happiness. Now, with the meaning of his words breaking slowly upon her, she realized that she had once again fallen victim to appearances. But today she was no longer the uncertain child she had been when she trod the boards at the Opera; she was capable now of understanding, and of anger.

"Then why did you marry me, Raoul?" she asked, her tone rivaling his for biting coldness. "I thought it was for love – I suppose that mistake was mine – but you could not have wanted things to end this way. If you could not keep the vows we made before God and witnesses, why did you ever come after me all those years ago? You could have left me with Erik, and saved us all the trouble of your turning your back on me now."

Raoul seemed to dismiss this remark as foolish; he never turned away from the window. "I wouldn't leave you in the hands of a monster, Christine. I was convinced at the time that I loved you – I have since learned I was wrong. Can you fault me for making an honest mistake?"

So cruel had Raoul become in the last few years that the insensitivity of his last words hardly registered in Christine's heart. It was instead the insult to Erik that fanned the flames steadily rising in her. "How dare you call _him_ a monster! You of all people have the least right to throw that label about!" she retorted angrily.

Her insistence seemed to pierce his cool veneer, for he finally turned and looked her in the eyes. "Even you, my dear Christine, can't call him human. _Monster_ is the only true name for him." For a moment he was silent, studying her features as they knotted in indignation. "And I wonder what _your _true name is, if you could have cared for him …"

The calmness that surrounded his insinuation goaded her. "He was more human than you can ever aspire to be!" she cried, springing from her seat and starting towards the door. How dare he accuse _her _of infidelity, even in her heart … for yes, she had thought of Erik, but …

As her hand touched the door handle, the thought broke upon her like a wave. She turned around.

"What is her name?" she asked as evenly as she could contrive.

He regarded her for a moment, then let out a deep breath. "I see that you are more perceptive than I had imagined; there is no point in hiding it any longer. Her name is Marie Aldault." She thought she saw the corners of his mouth twitch, as though he were almost laughing at her. "Do you want to know where we met?"

"No," she spat back. "I know that the most important thing to you is how much she is worth."

At that he did smile: a small, self-congratulatory smirk. "I will say that our combined wealth is more than enough to support us in a much more lavish style," he admitted. "But if it's money that concerns you, you needn't worry about yourself and the child. I'll support her in the manner befitting one of the de Chagny name. You will also receive an allowance, of course..."

"You've changed so much, Raoul." Her interruption was soft, a disbelieving sigh.

"And you haven't, Christine," Raoul responded. "Still wrapped up in your naïveté and piety. When will you be able to leave?"

"Give me a few days to pack," she replied, throwing the words over her shoulder as she walked through the door.

As she descended the long wooden staircase, Christine's tears of rage were dammed by the sound of Estelle's music-lesson transpiring below. Despite Raoul's word that he would take care of them, she knew that he would give far less than what they needed to survive; and in the face of the humiliation and poverty that were soon to surround them, she knew Elaine would need her mother's decorum above all else. From the music-room, Elaine's laughter emerged, cutting Christine to the heart. A silent scream _– how could he do this to us! –_ tore at her mind as she burst outside into the garden.

She was at the shore of the little lake by the time she had walked off the frenzy of her anger. But without it to carry her, her knees failed; she leaned against the smooth face of a nearby rock and wept. She wasn't blind – it wasn't as if this outcome was a complete surprise. Raoul's habits for drinking, gaming and philandering had been growing rapidly more pronounced as the years had progressed, and she had begun to believe that these were the burdens that every aristocratic wife must bear. But to be thrown aside in a hasty divorce was a shame far greater than that which entered her bedchamber smelling of brandy and cigars, with hands and words that no longer caressed and loved but hurt each chance they had.

Burying her face in her palms, Christine succumbed to the fall of twilight and the stings of betrayal. How long she maintained this attitude she was uncertain; but when she had regained herself she knelt at the pond's edge and splashed some of its waters on her cheeks. She would need all of its cool clarity to face her daughter without weeping.

It was a silent dinner that evening. Raoul did not join them, having left the house shortly after the scene in his study, and Christine herself spoke little; she did not think she could, felt strangled by the sensations of anger and sorrow that wrangled in her heart. Elaine seemed affected by the somber air that surrounded her mother, who noticed that the child was mostly pushing food around on her plate and staring at her mother with wide eyes.

After she had completely rearranged her dinner, Elaine could hold her tongue no longer. "Mama, why are you so sad?" she asked.

Christine had dreaded the inevitable questions; for Elaine was inquisitive and persistent, and she had not yet decided precisely what to tell her. "I am sad because we must leave the countryside, _mon coeur_," she finally answered carefully. "You and I will be moving away very soon; we must begin packing tonight, in fact."

"What about Papa?" Elaine queried after a moment's thought, and with a note of sadness floating in her voice. "Is he coming with us?"

"No, darling, he will be staying here," Christine answered in a voice that tried to forbid any more questions.

Elaine, however, did not take the hint. "But why must we go, Mama?"

Christine put down her fork and let her hand drift to her temple. "No more questions, Elaine. If you are done with your dinner, please go upstairs and gather together your dolls. I will be up shortly to begin taking down your dresses."

The child dutifully rose from her chair, but could not suppress one last question. "Where are we moving to, Mama?"

Finding she was too worn out to resist the child's insistence, she answered with a sigh, "We will go home for a little while, Elaine. After that, we shall see. Now, off you go."

After she tucked Elaine in for the evening, Christine also went to bed. She found herself unable to sleep, however; too many emotions coursed madly through her brain. Instead she threw open her shutters and let the cool country night air pour into the room; the moon was full, and its wan light suited her melancholy mood well as she paced in her nightgown.

Naturally she had been angry at first; but now that she had had some time to reflect on the sudden occurrences of the afternoon, her heart began to ache with a profound sadness. Since their marriage, she had been aware that Raoul had begun to change – keenly aware, at that, for the changes had been extreme and unpleasant, and altogether impossible to miss. She had tried to justify them in every way she could – and there had been sufficient reasons upon which to hang the blame.

Raoul's father had died not long after their wedding, and although he had disapproved of his son's choice of wife the two had reconciled before old de Chagny's death. He had made a final will only days before which restored to Raoul his proper inheritances. But the reclamation of his family's legacy, which ought to have brought such happiness and relief to the newlyweds, had only been the cause of further strife. Other relations, still refusing to accept Christine as a member of the family, and disbelieving that the old patriarch would change his mind even on his deathbed, had contested the will with a vengeance. After nearly two years of legal tangling, the matter had been decided in Raoul's favor, at which the remaining family turned their backs on him entirely. This loss of familial connections – and affections – was particularly hard on the Vicomte, who had loved his father deeply despite his disobedience in the matter of matrimony, and who was now left little better than an orphan. To add insult to injury, much of his father's money had been wasted on hefty legal costs; Raoul's solicitors had won his case for him, and were ruthless in the figuring of their fees afterwards.

To forget his troubles and to surround himself with society despite his being cast out by his family, Raoul had refocused his energies into leading a dizzying social life. With parties every night that teemed with champagne and required all the latest fashion, it was understandable that he quickly acquired tastes for spirits and gaming – and that his remaining financial resources began to dwindle. Nevertheless, he socialized with abandon; and Christine, who at the beginning had been his willing partner in all the wild waltzes, soon began to draw back from the picture of madcap recklessness he was coming to resemble. Raoul, already long-suffering as a result of his disownment, grew even more indignant at his wife's perception of his behavior, which he took for over-pious disapproval. This added exponentially to the vague resentment he had been tending for her ever since his family's abandonment of him; and soon he was lashing out at her, both by carrying on scandalous flirtations with other socialites, and with his increasingly frequent tempers.

When Elaine was born, Christine had hoped that becoming a father might lead Raoul towards reformation – and it had, for a time. But as Elaine grew older, his interest in her seemed to dwindle; he could no longer push her in a pram, or waltz with her bundled form in his arms to the delight of fellow revelers. He could not interest her in the pony he had bought for her, for she preferred dolls – and her music. At first Christine had suspected he was disappointed to have fathered a daughter and not a son; but as Elaine's musical talent became more obvious as she grew, Christine began to wonder whether it was not _this_ that Raoul resented, Elaine's love of music and her potential as a performer, which had been her mother's former profession and hence the source of his shame.

But as sad as these changes in her husband had made her, Christine had always contented herself with her station in life by reassuring herself that Raoul would always love and care for her. The vows they had made to each other bound them to that course; and no matter what misfortunes and sorrows befell them, she felt assured of Raoul's affection. Even when he returned home in the small hours of the morning and stumbled up the stairs in a drunken stupor, even when their acquaintance buzzed with intrigue and rumors of the Vicomte's latest lover, even when he spoke sharply or laid a rough hand upon her, Christine had always bravely wiped away her tears and reminded herself that he had pledged to love her until death.

The sudden loss of that one remaining truth had wounded Christine to the heart, and when she finally fell into a shallow sleep she still could find no rest; she tossed and turned, and her mind was plagued by uncomfortable dreams.

She was certain she still dreamed when a sound like flapping petticoats touched her ears; but the maid was frantic and determined to rouse her sleeping mistress.

"Madame! Madame le Vicomtesse!"

"What is it, Marguerite?" Christine questioned crossly, lifting herself stiffly on one elbow and squinting in the light of the servant's candle. "What time is it?"

In her hysteria, the maid overlooked Christine's sour tone. "Your husband, Madame," she cried, "He has been in a serious accident! You must come at once – there is a doctor downstairs!"

Every inch of Christine's skin crinkled into gooseflesh; her body seemed to leap from the bed of its own accord. "I will be right there," she replied hurriedly. Grabbing her dressing gown, she flew out the door on the servant's heels. She was still tying her sash when she reached the foot of the stairs.

"Monsieur – where is my husband? What has happened?" Christine asked the doctor, her voice betraying the emotion that her face tried to hide behind a calm façade.

The older gentleman regarded her with a cautious expression. "Madame le Vicomtesse …" he said slowly, "I think that you should be seated …"

Marguerite, having anticipated ill tidings, was standing by with a chair from the parlor. Christine sank into it gratefully. "Please, Monsieur – is Raoul going to be all right?"

The doctor cleared his throat, then began to pace. "Madame, your husband fell down a flight of stairs leading to the street from the Aldault residence. He was apparently intoxicated at the time. The family sent for me immediately, but his neck was broken. He was dead before I reached the scene of the accident. I'm ... I'm very sorry to have to bring such news to you, Vicomtesse." Going to one knee before her chair, he reached out a comforting hand; the other fingered the bottle of smelling salts in his pocket, in case they would be required.

For a moment the room was awhirl around Christine, but she did not faint; finally she was able to muster the strength and composure to take the doctor's outstretched hand. "I thank you, sir, for your kindness, and your service. I am sure you did all you could." She rose unsteadily to her feet. "But now, I hope you will pardon me – I …"

The grey-haired gentleman patted her hand compassionately and shook his head; he understood her meaning, and led her towards the stairs. "Marguerite," she called over her shoulder from the upper landing, "please see to the Doctor's needs – provide him with whatever he desires. Perhaps … a glass of brandy …"

"Yes, Madame." Marguerite said in an appropriately dejected tone. "This way, Monsieur."

The doctor bowed to Christine in a parting gesture. "I shall send the parish priest to you in the morning, Madame." From her station at the top of the staircase, she gave him a grateful nod of acknowledgement and bade him _adieu_.

Once safely within the walls of her bedchamber, what little self control she had been able to command dissolved, and she crumpled to the floor. Even though Raoul had wished to divorce her, Christine had not had the time to allow her anger to take control of her heart; and she had still loved him, her beloved childhood friend and her husband of not a few years.

"Oh, Raoul," she sobbed into the rich carpet, "how I wish I could have saved you!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Homecoming**

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 2**

            "Mama!  Mama, where are you?"

            Christine sighed as she heard her daughter's plaintive wail and hurried to her bedchamber door.  Opening it, she peered out into the corridor.  "I'm right here, _mon coeur ..."_

            Elaine emerged from the darkness like a little ghost and threw her arms about her mother's waist.  "I had a bad dream, Mama," she wept into the folds of Christine's nightgown.

            "There, there, _mon chéri_," Christine whispered, patiently stroking the child's bedraggled locks.  "I'm here."

            "Mama," the little girl murmured.  "Could I sleep with you?  I'd feel a lot safer..."

            "All right," Christine answered; but Elaine was clambering under her mother's coverlet before the words had entirely left her mouth.

            The little girl was asleep in five minutes, but Christine lay awake looking up at the shadows playing on the ceiling.  Some problems, like Elaine's nightmares, she could deal with easily.  Others were beyond her to solve; and the worst of all was money.  Since Raoul had always managed their finances, she had had no idea exactly how close they had been to bankruptcy.  Somehow Raoul had managed to maintain their excessive lifestyle on the narrowest of budgets; but she had not his head for figures, and could never hope to make what resources remained stretch far enough.  

            The home she and Raoul had occupied since their marriage would pass, not to Christine, but because of a quirk of inheritance law, to a male relative of Raoul's – a cousin, Henri.  He had been kind enough to allow Christine and Elaine to remain there for the time being, but Christine knew this could not last.  Nor would she wish it …

Her only claim was to Raoul's remaining liquid assets – and these were hardly substantial.  At best the money could last little more than half a year.  

            There was no way around it: Christine would have to become the breadwinner for herself and her small daughter.

            But what was she to do?  The only trade she had ever learned was music ...  And though her voice had become a brilliant instrument under Erik's tutelage, she felt self-conscious about employing it again now that she had lost contact with Erik forever.  Something inside her thought it was wrong to use for profit the gift that he had bestowed out of love. 

            Nevertheless, she knew that she was still capable of reaching the front and back rows of the Paris Opera House with equal clarity …

            When morning cast out the shadows of the night, Christine rose from bed.  Elaine was still sleeping peacefully, she noted; but she herself had not been afforded such fortune.  The mirror on the bedroom wall revealed an astonishing visage.  The sleepless nights had taken a toll on her: her eyes were bloodshot, and her complexion was rosy in all the wrong places.  The tears she had shed over Raoul hadn't helped the picture any either.  Her hand trembled as she put it up to her long dark hair.  Even this, which she considered to be her best feature, was dull and lifeless.

            She looked helplessly at herself for a few moments, dismayed at what change a few weeks of woe could accomplish.  But as she turned to watch her sleeping daughter and heard a slight sigh escape her lips, Christine suddenly realized where her new focus was.  "I must forget all of these small worries for Elaine's sake," she told herself as firmly as she could.

But her determination was scattered to the wind when she heard Elaine's plaintive little voice.

            "Mama?  Why don't you sleep in your old bedroom anymore?"

            Christine had been unaware that the child was awake; but she had been for some minutes, lying still and taking in the sights of the guest room where Christine had been quartered since Henri's arrival.

            "Because Cousin Henri wanted it, _mon coeur,_" she explained patiently; "and you remember I told you that this is his house now."

Elaine shifted huffily beneath the blankets; it was clear that, although she understood the arrangement, she did not care much for it.  "If this isn't our house anymore, then how long are we going to stay here?"

Christine sighed and stepped towards the bed, retrieving a hairbrush along the way to tame the child's locks.  "I don't know, Elaine.  I shall try to find us a new home soon."

            "Cousin Henri won't come with us, will he?  I do hate him – he's an old grouch!"

            "Elaine!"  Christine exclaimed sternly, though she was tempted to laugh.  "You mustn't speak of your cousin that way – it is quite ungrateful."

            "But Mama, he's so mean and awful!  He's always telling me where I can play, and not to make noise.  I can't stand him!"

            "Elaine, that is enough!" Christine said, fixing her with as firm an expression as she could manage.  "Now go to your room – I will come soon to help you dress for breakfast."

            As Elaine's golden curls bobbed meekly out of the room, Christine thought about what her daughter had said.  She had of course been grateful for Henri's invitation to remain in their former home as long as she and Elaine required; it had provided for the child a much-needed sense of stability, and for Christine a short respite from worry about the rather bleak financial situation in which she now found herself.  But she had not been a guest in her former for a week before she realized that she must make their time there brief.  

            Despite Henri's voice having been among the chorus of disapproval after her marriage to Raoul, he seemed to see nothing wrong with admiring her openly now that her husband was dead.  He had made no attempts to conceal his growing interest in her figure, which would draw his glance no matter how conservatively Christine tried to adorn it.  As yet he had made no advances towards her, but she could not feel certain that he never would.  Elaine's question about the shuffled sleeping quarters had struck a chord in her: _At least he did not invite me to share my old room with him, _she mused wryly.

            Before long Christine had completed her toilette and dressed for the day, and gone to help Elaine on with her dress and pinafore.  The child scampered off with her doll in hand, her chagrin of Cousin Henri momentarily forgotten.  Christine watched her with eyes filled with new purpose, then returned to her room, where she seated herself at the writing desk and began composing a letter to an old friend ...

            "Are we in Paris yet, Mama?"  Elaine asked for what seemed the fiftieth time since they had boarded the train.

            "No, Elaine,"  Christine answered, with a little weariness beginning to show through the neutral words.  "We won't reach Paris for another hour, at least."

            "Tell me about the Opera House again!"  Elaine demanded, her little pink cheeks glowing with anticipated delight.

            "But I just told you, silly goose!"  Christine answered, putting down the score she had been studying and trying to suppress the urge to laugh.  "Won't you grow tired of it, if I tell you again?"

            "No, Mama!  Never!"

            Christine gave in good-naturedly and began again the narrative that Elaine had begun to regard almost as a fairy tale.  "All around the Opera, the roads spread outward, like spokes on a wheel.  The building is made of beautiful marble and stone, and it shines like a great gem at the center of a crown.  At the top is a grand golden dome, like the very ceilings of Heaven; and all around the building are statues of angels – angels playing on harps and flutes and glorifying God with their voices, just as do all the musicians and actors who perform beneath that dome."

            The little girl's eyes were dreamy, but she was still excited enough to prompt her mother onward.  "You forgot to tell about the rose garden!"

            "I did not, _cheri_ - you interrupted me." Christine resumed the story with grace.  "Before the steps that lead to the grand foyer, the garden is spread out like a carpet.  The drive for the carriages passes through it, and they have many flowers there.  White, pink, yellow, red – even a bush whose roses are so dark, they're almost black.  No one knows who placed that bush there, but it has been there for as long as I can remember."

            Elaine looked at her mother with eyes like an addict's, pleading, almost desperate.  "Please, Mama, tell me about the stage!"

            "My silly _cheri_…  If you stand on the stage, you will see the seats spreading outward like a sea of red velvet; it covers everything, the orchestra seats, the railings of the balconies, and the hangings in the boxes where the richest patrons sit.  Scattered among the velvet are hundreds of tiny glints of brass, shined up like little stars by the Opera folk before each performance.  High above your head the red and gold will go, until you see what is held up by the pillars made of marble: the ceiling is painted with scenes of Paris and all its wonders.  And in the center of it hangs the chandelier, its glass beads twinkling like a thousand stars."  Christine repressed a shudder. "It is very beautiful to see."

            "Oh, Mama!" Elaine sighed, clasping her hands together.  "Will Aunt Meg let me see all of it – every last thing about it?"

            "I'm sure she will, dear.  The Opera is always more magical when you have a friend to help you explore."

            Elaine flounced back into her seat and lay her head dramatically against a cushion, a contented smile spreading across her face.              Christine was grateful that these small descriptions had been enough to make Elaine think of the Opera with the promise – and to distract the child from asking her mother about her time there.  As much as she hated to conceal it from her child, she could not bear to tell the rest of the story ... nor, she reasoned, was a child so young ready for such a tale.

            _I myself am hardly ready for it, she thought grimly.  She had shirked, in the end, from the decision to return to the Opera; she could not bear the shame of applying to the managers as a supplicant.  But surely there were those among the company whom she could still name "friend," and who would be so kind as to tend to her daughter while she went out into the vast world to make a living for them both._

            Elaine was soon lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the train, but Christine stayed awake; her nerves jangled at the prospect of once again entering the structure that had been Erik's domain.  She had not been able to crowd out the memory of him, not even with her new, grown-up concerns of finance and family.  Perhaps it was he who prevented her, after all, and not the managers; but she checked herself firmly.  _I will not think of the past, she told herself; __the present is far more important.  _

            To steady herself and bolster her resolve, she cast a furtive glance at her daughter; the child was sleeping soundly, and Christine returned to her music.

            "Oh, Christine!  How lovely to finally see you again!"  Meg was glowing with joy as she embraced her old friend.  "And can this young beauty be Elaine?  My, how tall you are! – are you sure you're only six, _cheri?"_

            Elaine dropped a pretty little curtsey.  "_Enchante, Aunt Meg!"_

            Christine impulsively kissed her friend and replied, "So _is it nice to see me, even if you will have a visitor for a while?"_

            "Of course!" she answered.  "I will love getting to know Elaine.  I only wish I had been able to meet her sooner."  The jibe was gentle but did not go unnoticed by Christine.  Of course she felt responsibility for their long parting, but she could hardly have done more to prevent it.  Raoul had been adamantly opposed to her inviting Meg for a visit, even after they had been married, and her wish to choose the ballerina as Elaine's godmother had met with flat refusal.

            "I cannot thank you enough, Meg," Christine began softly, meaning to explain; but she was interrupted by Elaine.

            "Can we go see the stage and the balconies and the chandelier?"

            "Of course," Meg responded with a smile, after a hurried glance at Christine.

            "Now?" Elaine demanded impatiently.

            "Elaine," Christine chided her daughter.  "Your Aunt Meg and I have some visiting to do.  You'll have all the time in the world for touring – later."

            Elaine pouted a little, but brightened when Meg found a stable-boy that was willing to take her to see the horses.  As soon as she was led away, the two friends made their way arm-in-arm to Meg's dressing room, where two matching red chairs awaited them.

            "Christine ... I'm so sorry about Raoul," Meg's voice faltered.  "Please tell me truly – are you all right?"

            Christine reached out for her friend's hand.  "Thank you, Meg.  I am as well as can be expected, I suppose.  It has been hard …"

            Meg held on tightly to Christine as she told the entire story; her eyes widened at the bits Christine had left out of her letter.  "Oh, Christine," she said tersely when her friend had finished; "I know it's not Christian to speak ill of the dead, but …!"

            Christine shook her head sadly.  "It wasn't all his fault, dear.  I feel responsible for his feelings – for certainly I must have failed him somehow, for his heart to change so drastically."  Setting her jaw, she added, "Though I don't know what else I could have done – I did so much to make him happy …"

            Embracing her impetuously, Meg sighed, "You mustn't blame yourself.  Let his death bury the sorrow you shared."  

Christine nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.  "Thank you, Meg," she said, giving her friend's hand a grateful squeeze.  "You've been so good – I want you to know that I appreciate it."

            The little ballerina smiled and cast her gaze downward.  "I only wish that I could help you and Elaine more than this."

            "You are the sweetest and the best friend I have in the world," Christine smiled gently.  

            "I feel so useless to you, though.  All I can do is watch Elaine for a while ..."

            "Your assistance is essential to me, Meg.  I could not very well take her all over the countryside; she needs stability, and a place to call home.  She will get both in Paris; and with you, I know she will also be loved and wanted.  I could never live with myself if I made her feel abandoned."

            Meg smiled and then frowned as a thought passed her mind.  "How much does she know about your career at the Opera?"

            Christine set her jaw again, assuming an expression of determination and maturity that Meg had never seen her wear before today.  "Only that I sang here and left to marry her father.  She knows nothing else."

            Nodding, Meg reflected silently on this new side of her friend.  "What should I tell her if she asks any questions?"

            Christine unclasped her hands and turned them palms upward.  "The truth, I suppose."

            "All of it?"  Meg's voice carried a small note of skepticism and worry.

            "As much as she can understand."

            Meg's hand traced the pleat in her dress.  "I will do my best to keep her identity secret.  I know that this is important to you."

            "By all means," Christine replied with conviction.  "I couldn't stand it if she were the object of stares and whispers."

            "I shall do my best."

            "I have complete faith in you," Christine smiled; but Meg noticed it was a sadder, more knowing smile than the one she had formerly known.  Rising, the former Vicomtesse wandered to a table laden with many bouquets.  Meg had clearly done well for herself since her departure and marriage; the room was filled with flowers from her various admirers.  "But now let us talk of merrier things – tell me of all the beaux who I am sure are tripping over themselves in the hallway, their arms full of roses!"

            Meg laughed her pretty, pearly little laugh.  "They are all so foolish, Christine.  I honestly can't understand how they believe such ridiculous behavior would win a lady's heart."  She rose too, and joined her friend in running her fingers across the velvety petals.  "The flowers _are lovely, but I never accept any other gifts; I will not allow myself to be beholden to any man until I am certain he's the right one.  And …" she paused and looked down demurely.  "… Besides, I rather enjoy the freedom of being unmarried."  Looking up again, she captured Christine's gaze and grinned broadly.  "Do I shock you?"_

            It was Christine's turn to laugh.  "Not in the slightest," she replied.  "But your mother …"

            "Oh," Meg fluttered.  "Since I became prima ballerina I can do no wrong in her eyes – except, perhaps, in that one area."

            Christine smiled, noting to herself how Meg had grown – not just taller and more lovely, but in spirit as well.  She was no longer the child she had known.  "And how is her health?"

            "As well as can be expected after a case of pneumonia like hers.  She misses being able to come to all of the performances, but she makes it to as many of the ballets as she can manage.  And she is very much looking forward to meeting Elaine.  Her words were, "It is about time some childish voices rang through our house.'"  Meg laughed gently.  "If she's hinting towards the possibility of grandchildren, she'll be waiting a while longer."

            "Well, you may be right not to accept flippant offers of undying love and devotion."  Christine teased.  

            Meg leaned over and picked a nosegay from amidst the various blooms.  "They all speak of 'eternal happiness' and 'undying bliss.'  I wonder if they even know what the words mean!"  But here she bit her tongue; she had been about to remark that Christine, of all others, must understand that all the glittering proposals of suitors do not really promise gold.  

            Instead, she confessed a secret she had been smothering since she had first received her friend's letter.  "I do wish you would stay here and sing, Christine.  I know it would be difficult, but ..."

            "No," Christine sighed, shaking her head.  "I could not, even if I wanted to … People still remember, and I would not wish Elaine to suffer for that.  Perhaps …"  

            She trailed off, for she had caught a glimpse of herself in one of Meg's long ballet mirrors.  She was standing in Meg's dressing room, far from the location of her own former cubby; but the mirror's silver surface still raised gooseflesh on her arms, and troublesome memories surged forward in her mind despite her knowledge that _this mirror concealed no dark geniuses.  _

            Christine had tried as best she could to shake off the urge to reminisce about Erik, to pass quickly in and out of the Opera again without thinking of him, so that her resolve would not falter or become bogged down in regret.  There was no changing what had happened here, and there could be no turning back from her current course …

            Meg's expression was quizzical; Christine shook herself mentally and continued.  "I will simply have to make my fame elsewhere."  With a smile, she entwined her arm with her friend's.  "In time, I am sure I will have established myself in comfort; and I will return for Elaine as soon as I possibly can."

            As if speaking the child's name had summoned her, Elaine's footfalls could be heard approaching, as always, at a run; and moments after they thumped to a stop in the hall, the child burst into the room.

            "Mama, Aunt Meg!  Look what I found!" she cried.

            "Dearest," Christine admonished her gently; "it is very rude to interrupt grownups when they are talking."

            But she caught her tongue as Elaine held out a single red rose.  "It was just outside the door."


	3. Chapter 3

**Homecoming**

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 3**

            "How unusual!" Christine managed to say, although she felt as though her breath had been choked out of her.  Casting a significant glance towards Meg, she ventured, "One of your admirers has a very sweet imagination ..."  

            Meg guessed at the source of Christine's sudden tension, but attempting to play along she examined the flower Elaine had handed her.  "Isn't that lovely?" she said, giving the rose a careful sniff for the child's benefit.  But as she bent her face to the bloom, a flash of white at the doorstep caught her eye.  

            A quick perusal of the note revealed that the flower was left by a particularly love-struck admirer of Meg's.  Christine giggled with her friend as the note was read aloud, but it was more to release her own nervous energy than out of mean-spiritedness towards the young man.  What panic had gripped her heart at the sight of the bloom! – and yet what a sense of sorrow replaced that fear when its origin had been discovered …

            She had spoken only vaguely with her friend about Erik, perhaps revealing much less than she should have; but there was no reason to believe that he was any longer here at the Opera, and for this reason she had felt it best to treat the book as closed.  Too many confusing, conflicted emotions were coursing through her mind, and she did not relish offering an explanation to her little friend when she could not entirely explain the past to herself.  

            Meg and Christine spent a little more time together, including Elaine in their conversation as best they could; but soon the appointed time arrived, and Christine rose.

            Elaine watched her mother don her hat with an expression quite serious for her small years.  "Mama – are you really going to leave?" she asked, tears brimming in her eyes.

            "Oh, _mon couer_," Christine sighed, falling to her knees and embracing her daughter.  "I love you so, so much.  You and Meg will have a grand time, and you will hardly notice that I'm gone before I'm back again.  Do you promise to be very good?"

            "Yes, Mama," Elaine replied in a very small voice.

            Christine gave the little girl a tight squeeze and one more kiss before rising to clasp hands with Meg.  "I love you, dearest."  To Meg she whispered, "Thank you;" and quickly, so her daughter would not see her tears, Christine made her departure.

            Meg knelt beside Elaine and threaded her arm around her waist; her other hand offered the rose.  "If you like this, Elaine, you may keep it – I have quite a few in here already, as you can see."

            The child looked at Meg with large eyes.  "May I _really_?" she asked.

            "Of course," Meg smiled gently, glad the small gesture had seemed to cheer the child.  "Now don't cry – we should be enjoying ourselves!"

            Sniffling back her tears, Elaine remembered the stories her mother had told her.  "Could we please go see the stage now?"

            "Yes!  What a wonderful idea,"  Meg answered, smiling at her enthusiastically; when the little girl smiled back, Meg swept her graciously toward the door.

            Elaine was enthralled with the stage and wanted to examine each inch of it minutely.  Meg stayed close behind, afraid that the little girl might fall into one of the trapdoors.

            "Do they go down awfully far?"  Elaine said, clutching her rose and leaning over one of the gaping holes.

            Meg reached out her hand and gently pulled the little girl back.  "They go far enough down that they could hurt you if you aren't very careful."

            Affected by Meg's warning, Elaine backed away from the opening.  Her fear was soon forgotten, though, when a curtain rustled.

             "Oh, Meg!  Are those the ballet girls?"

            "That's right!  The _petits rats, they call them – the have rehearsal for tomorrow night's performance.  And  I should be practicing, too – come along, mademoiselle.  You can be my audience!" _

            After an afternoon of rigorous practice, Meg bundled Elaine home to her own mother.  "So this is Christine's daughter,"  Madame Giry said pleasantly, tipping Elaine's chin up towards the lamplight.  "She has her mother's looks, that's certain."

            "Good evening, Madame,"  Elaine responded with her best manners, with a small curtsey thrown in for good measure.

            The older woman was delighted.  "What an elegant little thing you are, Elaine."

            "_Merci, Madame."_

            "Mama, I do believe Elaine should have some supper and then go to bed; she has had a very long day for such a young lady."

            "I rode on a train!"  Elaine interjected, unable to let Meg have the telling of _her_ story.  "I got to see the stage, and Meg's room, and there was … "

            "That is very nice, child." Madame Giry interrupted her gently, but firmly.  "Come now and have something to eat." 

            After a small repast of good food, Meg led Elaine to her bedroom.  "You will sleep in here with me, but you'll have your own little bed.  Does that sound nice?"

            Elaine seemed pleased with the small cot Meg had made up for her; but as the older girl buttoned her into her nightgown and tucked her under the covers, her voice grew small and sad.  "Meg, will you tell me a story?  Mama always tells me a story ..."

            "What would you like to hear?"  Meg asked, smiling kindly and smoothing the child's hair.

            "Cinderella?"  Elaine squeaked.

            "But of course," Meg replied, and plunged into the story.

            Elaine was fast asleep before Cinderella reached the ball, and Meg slipped quietly out of the room and closed the door behind her.  From her chair beside the fire, Madame Giry glanced up from her knitting with an inquiring expression.

            "Sound asleep," Meg smiled.  "She asked for a story, but she couldn't outlast it."

            "That is for the best, I'm sure," Madame Giry put in.  "I'm sure the poor child has had quite a bit happening around her of late – perhaps more than she understands, I dare say."

            Meg nodded somberly.  "You are probably right, Mama.  Christine told me much this afternoon – she left a great deal out of her letter."

            "I had feared as much," was her mother's soft reply.  "You need not tell me now; I am tired myself.  But how is Christine?"

            Meg gave the matter some consideration.  "She stayed to visit only briefly, but I could sense a distinct change in her.  She is … she is so like I remember, and yet so different; she is much more serious, and sad."

            "I am sure,"  Madame Giry assented.  "But you must remember she is no longer the child you knew; she has been a wife, and a mother – and now a widow.  These roles are nothing like the ones she played on the Opera's stage, and would certainly leave their marks on her."  Meg nodded in agreement.  "But now, my dear, I shall retire; and perhaps you should too.  You must be well-rested for your performance tomorrow evening."

            "Dear Mama – still the ballet mistress," Meg giggled.  "And will you come to see me?  It would be no trouble to get Elaine in as well."

            "I am feeling rather well enough; and I am sure Elaine would delight in it.."

            Meg clapped her hands in amusement.  "Lovely!  I can just see the two of you now, sitting in the foyer, eating bonbons …"

            Madame Giry crossed her arms in mock-severity.  "… And listening to your many admirers speak of your beauty, I'm sure."

            "Why not?" Meg answered with a suppressed grin.  "Are they not speaking the truth?"  

            When their laughter subsided, both ladies retired to their rooms.

            Elaine was a great success with all of the crowd in the crush-rooms.  Everyone admired and exclaimed over her lovely gown, her thick blonde curls and her noble little manners.  Madame Giry managed a bit of a laugh, for she alone out of this crowd knew that Elaine could be as difficult as she was enchanting; one day as the child's keeper had revealed much.  "It isn't that she is a _bad child," Madame Giry told Meg later on.  "But she has been indulged, perhaps overly so; for her ideas about how she should behave simply do not coincide with mine."_

            Everyone in the attending crowd that night, however, found her to be "_tres mignon;" more than one socialite delighted in her antics and labeled her "_le jolie_." She even received a small portion of a column in __L'Epoque, where it was noted that she was "the" topic of the evening.  Who was the charming mystery child?  _

            Only one person looked at her and thought of Christine Daae; but he, as always, kept his opinion to himself.

            He had only marked her briefly, but something in the lift of her chin and the riot of her curls reminded him of  Mademoiselle Daae.  "Though she isn't Mademoiselle Daae anymore," the Persian reminded himself.  He was seated comfortably in his flat on the Rue de Rivoli by now; he had had enough of the press of the crowd and the lackluster singing.  

            "This leading lady's attitude makes La Carlotta look one of the Catholics' saints," he told Darius, his manservant; "and furthermore, if I had ever had a camel whose voice resembled hers, I would personally put it out of its misery."  He shook his head.  "But, I suppose the management cannot be beggars _and choosers; she has been the only leading lady willing to stay on after learning what happened to Carlotta and Christine Daae."_

            Darius, true to character, nodded but said nothing.  Nadir sighed.  "If only Erik would let me come see him..." 

            His mind wandered back to their last conversation.  Erik had been evasive on many issues, but had been very firm on two: that Christine and the Vicomte had been safely released, and that he wished the Persian to leave him alone until further notice.  The events surrounding  the kidnapping had all but destroyed the frail bridge of friendship spanning the great chasm between the two men.  Erik had assured Nadir that he did still consider him a friend, but that he required, and would have, solitude; and the Persian was unwilling to put anymore stress upon the tenuous bond than was absolutely necessary.  

            At this time, like many times in their past, the Daroga felt like a chess-piece in Erik's hands.  The king had castled and the queen was apparently lost, so Nadir stayed nearby, as a good bishop should, and waited for Erik to make the next move.


	4. Chapter 4

**Homecoming**

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 4**

            "Elaine!  Come down from there!"  Meg cried out.  "Jacques, please, bring her here!"

            "I don't want to come down!"  Elaine replied stubbornly.  "I like it up here!"

            "Why did you even let her follow you up there?"  Meg admonished the young stagehand, who had let Elaine shadow him during Meg's rehearsal.  "She is too young to be up in the flies."

            "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle … I meant no harm ... she begged to come up."  Jacques looked suitably embarrassed.

            "Just bring her down, please,"  Meg sighed.  This was not the first of the young girl's escapades.  She seemed bound and determined to explore all of the Opera in detail, irregardless of any adult protestations.  She had been seen on the roof, leaning over the railing in quite a precarious position; the elder stablemen had found her in the stall with the most temperamental horse that the opera owned.  The only thing she hadn't done was go into the cellars; and Meg had told her as much as she could about spiders, rats, and slimy creatures, hoping Elaine would not be foolish enough to venture down below.  It had been years since the Phantom of the Opera had been heard from, but many of the cast still believed he lurked there; Meg suspected otherwise, but nevertheless did not relish the idea of having to chase the child down into the dark.

            "But, Aunt Meg!  Jacques was going to show me how they change the scenes!"  Elaine argued even as the stagehand carried her down..

            "You are too little to be up there yet, _cheri_.  The flies are dangerous even for the stagehands who have been here for years."  Meg briefly remembered seeing Joseph Buquet swinging above the stage, and she tried to repress her revulsion at the image.

             "What are you two doing on the stage?" came the voice of the outraged leading lady, Lucia Trevezant.  "Don't you know that the ballet rehearsal is over?  Go away and let me practice without the benefit of your presence."

            "I beg your pardon, Madame Trevezant," Meg said, bowing her head respectfully.  "We did not mean to interrupt your session.  Pray continue and we will leave."

            The irate diva was distracted momentarily by the arrival of the managers.  "We have come to see if you need anything, Madame," Andre wheeled; they were bowing and scraping, as always.  Meg wondered if they slept in that position.

            "I need you to remove these ... children … from the stage," Madame Trevezant scoffed.  "How can an artist perform with such distractions?  Messieurs, if you wish me to continue with you here at this _theatre - " she spit out this last word with particular venom - "you will insure for me an environment conducive to practicing and performing!  Wherever else I have been, the management has taken great pains to ascertain my comfort."_

            "I doubt _anything _could achieve that," Meg muttered as she tried to hurry Elaine off of the stage.

            "What was that!" the diva shrieked.  "How dare you!  I have been insulted!"  Lucia fairly flew at Meg in a rage, but at the last moment thought better of it and turned instead to the management.  "Fire her!  Discharge her at once!"

            Firmin shot Meg a disapproving look as Andre continued his daily job of inflating the diva's ego.  "My dear madam, you must of course understand and expect jealous behavior in _lesser members of the cast," he said.  "For who would not be moved to pettiness out of sheer envy of your talents?_

            "Yes, Madame," Firmin corroborated his partner, although somewhat halfheartedly.  "You must pay her no mind ..."

            Meg finally managed to drag Elaine off of the stage, and gave a sigh of relief.  "Do you see, Elaine, what trouble misbehavior can cause?  Next time, will you please do as I ask you?"

            Elaine looked at her with wide eyes and nodded. "But, Aunt Meg – will they really fire you?"

            "No, they won't."  Meg managed a weak smile.  "Madame Trevezant calls for someone to be discharged almost every day of the week.  If they always did as she told them, she would be the only one left on the stage."  

            "But why may she do whatever she likes, and I must always do as I am told?" Elaine pouted.

            Meg suppressed the urge to laugh.  "Because she is the diva, _cheri_.  That's life at the opera house."

            Though she had been careful not to shield Elaine from the stories of him, Meg suddenly found herself missing the Phantom of the Opera; the managers had certainly not profited from his bullying, but many others among the opera-folk had appreciated it.  At least the quality of singing, if not the diva's temper, had been better during his reign.

            Miles away from the escapades in Paris, Christine took a break from rehearsal.  She had managed to obtain a position with a small troupe of actors and singers out of _______, and though the salary was not as large as that she had enjoyed at the Opera Garnier, she was encouraged.  Already she had been recognized for her tremendous ability, and had been singled out to prepare solo pieces to round out the troupe's operatic repertoire.  Recently she had even been approached by a patron, asking if she had ever considered singing at soirees or wedding parties …

            She was far from having established a home for herself and her daughter, for she was still boarding with several other members of the troupe; but Christine felt confident that it was only a matter of time before luck would turn her way again.  She kept one ear to the ground constantly for any permanent musical theatres holding auditions for soloists, for though she herself was able and content to travel, she knew this life would never suit Elaine.  

            That morning Christine had received one of Meg's regular letters; and now she settled down with a cool drink to read her friend's latest report.

"Dear Christine,

            I hope that this letter finds you well and happy.  We are all well, though missing you of course; and we have been so delighted with your successful engagements in ____.  A few notices have managed to travel the great distance to Paris, and they all have been wonderful!

            "Elaine is having a marvelous time exploring the theatre, and the entire cast dotes on her.  Mama and I took her to the last showing of  "La Juive," and she made quite a sensation; enclosed is a bit about her that was in _l'Epoque.  She talks about you every day, and hangs on every word of your letters._

            My mother has resumed Elaine's piano lessons, although her progress is almost too quick for what small training Mama has had.  In reading, writing and arithmetic, however, Mama still has the upper hand.  She tells me that she is finding Elaine an apt pupil, and I can attest to the improvement in her reading; each evening she reads to us from the Bible.  I am sure the sight of her bent over her slate, working sums, would make you very proud; she is as bright as she is lovely, and a credit to her Mama.

            Thank you for asking about my rehearsals; they are going very well, and the company as a whole has been enjoying quite a bit of success of late.  The leading lady is still behaving like royalty, but we are all used to that by now.  I am sure, of course, that none of us would be adverse to throwing her over in favor of a less self-absorbed _prima donna_; but in my opinion, the best candidate for _that_ position is at this moment rather far from Paris.

            We are all missing you, dearest, and wishing you continued success.  Mama and myself send our love, and Elaine her tightest hugs and sweetest kisses; you are ever in our thoughts and prayers.

                                                Yours very truly, 

                                                                                    Meg."

            Christine closed the letter and her eyes for a moment, letting bittersweet emotions wash over her.  "I never knew how hard it would be to leave Elaine," she thought.  The engagements had indeed been going well, but Christine knew it might be some time yet before she would see her little girl again.  She would have to be quite well-established, and possess a good amount of savings, in order to reclaim her daughter; for performing full-time would be difficult once she resumed her foremost role of mother.

            But the cost of living was too high in some cities, and there was a lack of adequate housing in others.  In some places, where there were few theatres to apply to for employment, she would have to depend upon employment as a soloist; this of course meant depending on the whims of the nobility, which she knew would be dangerous.  The story of her husband's rather scandalous behavior and death certainly might count against her; to those petty socialites, her past could be more important than her voice.  

            Christine sighed and brushed aside a tear; she still nursed a painful anger mingled with the grief she felt for Raoul.  She did not wish to blame him for the situation in which she now found herself, but occasionally frustration and homesickness for her daughter made her resent her now-departed husband for the indiscretions which had ultimately led to his own demise.  That he should find peace while they reaped the degradation his extravagance had sowed …!  But steeling herself against these destructive thoughts, she turned her mind to pleasanter things: she began a letter to Elaine and Meg, enclosing money for the little girl's upkeep.

            Elaine was bored.  She had explored all of the opera house, had listened to every story that Meg and Madame Giry could tell her –  and had even heard a few that they _hadn't_ been willing to tell.  It was amazing what the ballet girls knew, especially about the Phantom of the Opera.  They told her many stories about him, including some that mentioned a girl named Christine.  Elaine loved these the best because the heroine was named after her mother.

            So one day when the younger ballet girls proclaimed their intention of going down into the cellars – "just to see how it _really_ is," they said – Elaine decided to go with them.  She knew that Aunt Meg would be displeased; but the plans were just for a quick trip, only a few flights down and then straight back up again.  Besides, wouldn't Meg be proud if Elaine happened to discover something new and interesting?

            The girls hurried off after rehearsal towards the dressing room belonging to some of the older girls, giggling all the way.  "Are you ready?" Agnes asked the rest.  She was the acknowledged leader due to the fact that she was the bossiest, and the whole thing had been her idea in the first place.

            "Yes!" the others said in unison.  A few of the chosen ones grabbed some candles to light the way.

            "All right, follow me!" Agnes cried.  The girls clasped hands and scampered towards the backstage area, taking care to avoid any of the stage-crew.  Soon they reached the stairs and gingerly began their descent.  The air became noticeably colder as they reached the first cellar, though from damp or from fear it was impossible to tell; Elaine began to wish that she had brought a shawl with her. 

            Slowly the girls' eyes became accustomed to the dimness, and they spread out to explore the area minutely.  There were occasional shrieks as someone ran into a cobweb or another girl in the darkness, but on the whole this cellar had very little to offer the adventurers except a few old props and pieces of scenery.

            "Does anyone want to turn back?" Agnes asked in a taunting voice that implied that anyone who did would forever be labeled a coward.  Her followers looked at each other for a moment, then burst out into a chorus of negative replies.  The stairs to the second cellar were soon located and the girls plunged down once more into the darkness below.

            The second cellar was much like the first and Elaine began to get tired of wandering about aimlessly.  The rest of the girls were looking nervous and pale.  "Agnes, when are we going back?" Elaine asked.

            "Why do you want to know?" Agnes sneered.  "Are you getting scared?  _I didn't ask you to come anyway.   Wasn't that your doing, Belinda?"_

            "I ..." Belinda stammered, shrinking in the face of Agnes' disapproval.

            "I am _not_ scared," Elaine insisted forcefully. 

            "Well, then ..." Agnes cast about for some impossible task to prove the younger girl's cowardice.  "Why don't you go down to the next cellar?  You _do know that the Phantom's domain begins there ..."_

            Elaine swallowed hard.  If she didn't go, Agnes would never let her live it down; but if she did, and the Phantom was real ...  She wanted to sob, but instead squared her proud little shoulders.  "All right, I will."

            "Good!" snapped Agnes, feeling put out at the failure of her little dare.  But she was still the victor – Elaine would lead the way where Agnes herself was afraid to go.  All the rest of the _petite rats_ were whispering among themselves and backing slowly towards the steps that led back to first cellar, and to safety.  Agnes continued her taunting:

             "But we have to have proof that you made it _all the way down ...  I know!"  Reaching out,  Agnes snapped the chain of Elaine's necklace, and removed the charm.  She tested its weight and in a second she had thrown it into the abyss below.  A slight metallic clink was all that returned to their listening ears._

            Elaine stood in stunned silence and then whirled on Agnes with all of her six-year-old fury.  "How could you?" she cried, balling her little hands into fists.  "My mother gave me that locket!"

            The older girl just laughed.  "Here's the chain.  Now let's see if you can get the rest of it back!" 

            Never had fifteen steps seemed like such a task to Elaine.  The first few were not _so _hard, but by the fifth one, Elaine's imagination had begun to run away with her.  What if the Phantom really _did live down there, in the dark caves below the Opera?  What if he really did lay in wait for little children who came too far down?  She raised the stub of a candle that had been pressed into her hand by Belinda, but its small light revealed nothing but more steps descending far into the dark. _

            Suddenly, a haughty voice rang out from behind.  "I knew she couldn't do it.  She's just a silly little girl!"  But the taunt had quite the opposite effect Agnes had intended; Elaine's anger rose like a sail and she marched down six more steps without any more thought of the Phantom.

            By this time, the shadows had completely engulfed her small frame, and all that the girls above could see of her was the tiny flame of her candle.  "Are you sure that is fair, Agnes?" one asked worriedly.  "She's just little."

            "Do you want to hold her hand, Yvonne?  Go right ahead," Agnes said unconcernedly.

            Yvonne's glance darted back and forth between their cruel ringleader and the blackness below; finally she took a few steps toward the edge of the precipice, clutching the little cross she wore as if to ward off any evils that might come rushing up.  "Elaine?  Are you all right?"

            "Yes, Yvonne – I'm on the thirteenth step."  Having said that unlucky number aloud did not help matters any, but Elaine just tightened her grip on her ruined chain and gritted her teeth.  The butterflies in her stomach felt like they were incredibly anxious to get back up the stairs and her heart hammered in agreement with them, but bravely she fought back against her fear.  Gathering all of her courage, she took another step.  "Fourteen!"

            Two more steps and she had gained the third cellar.  "I made it!" she cried triumphantly, and from the top of the steps she could hear her captive audience's sigh of relief.  Then, gathering back her golden hair, Elaine began searching for her missing trinket.  Vague disembodied voices surrounded her at this depth, and the sound of many shoes on the floor above her head echoed like hoofbeats through the dark emptiness of the third cellar.  The little girl ignored them, preferring to focus all of her attention upon achieving her goal.  She was rewarded by a small glint of reflected light which drew her very close to a flight of stairs descending downward into gloom.

            Elaine hurried over to the little bit of light and found her locket, but her little fingers could not retrieve it; it seemed to be wedged between two tiles.  "I've found it, but it is stuck!"  she cried up the stairs, but there was no audible reply.  "Perhaps they can't hear me," she thought to herself – "or perhaps they've left me down here by myself!"  Elaine's bravery disintegrated and she began to cry, tugging at the piece of stubborn jewelry.  It came loose all of a sudden, and the unexpected force was enough to send the tiny girl rolling down the stairs with a scream.  She had fainted well before her little body struck the bottom.


	5. Chapter 5

**Homecoming**

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 5**

            He came quite unexpectedly upon the figure of a little girl on the floor of the fourth cellar; but looking around, he could find no traces of any other person to whom she could possibly belong.  It was the last thing he would have expected, to see anyone there – no one had been in this part of the opera for years – but that such a small child could have found her way so far down would have been extraordinary at any time.  

            Though Erik stood perfectly still over the small prone form, his mind was racing; he had lost all that he had known of love, and most of friendship as well, in the last seven years, but he still possessed all the acuity of wit for which he had been so infamous.  And yet now he sought and failed to find any explanation for this strange circumstance.  

            The child gave a slight cry from the depths of her sleep, and Erik was jerked rudely back to the present moment.

            Meditating on the situation a moment longer, the gentleman in black surmised that the simplest explanation was the most likely: she must have wandered into the cellars alone, and fallen down the stairs.  Kneeling at her side, he discovered balled in her fist a fine gold chain; nearby the stub of a candle lay in a pool of its own wax, clearly dropped and extinguished after the child's fall. 

            Swiftly, Erik mounted the nearby steps, but the third cellar was also deserted; only the far-away sounds of everyday rehearsals could be heard drifting down from the stage.  There, near the top step, he saw the dust had been disturbed; and his eyes made out the little charm stuck in a crack in the floor.

            Retrieving the trinket, he returned to the child.  A locket, a broken chain, a little girl … A mystery, for she was clearly not a member of the _corps d'ballet – _she was too young by more than a few years, and moreover she was well-dressed, wearing a blue dress of good material and leather shoes.  His assessment of her appearance also revealed injuries incurred by her tumble: one leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and she also sported various cuts and bruises.  Otherwise, however, she was a rather pretty child …

            Suddenly he reigned himself in tightly.  "What have I done?" he muttered; for in investigating the scene he knew he had allowed himself to become involved with the child.  It was obvious that even if she woke in the near future, she couldn't possibly walk up four flights of stairs; the right leg was certainly broken, and her other might very well have been injured also.  The stairs were stone, and young bones very fragile … 

            Though swift to heal …

            Erik tried but failed to shake the sense of responsibility that was rapidly taking hold.  Even if he were to carry her to the next cellar, there was a chance that she would not be discovered in time to tend to her injuries properly; and if he went any higher than that, he risked discovery himself.  Erik could not hazard that possibility, for he had worked long and hard at remaining unseen and forgotten.

            But nor he could not bring himself to abandon this little stranger …

            For a moment he hovered over her, almost wishing for some sign; he had learned the dangers implicit in reaching out to another person … but the child whimpered again, and her pain touched his heart, and he knew he could not leave her.  

            Removing his cloak, Erik carefully enveloped the child in its folds.  She sighed a little, but did not wake; and as he lifted her, her little head fell against his shoulder.  As he began the journey to his house beneath the theatre, he could not help remembering his childhood prayer book.  How often he had turned its leaves for comfort when he could not seek it in his own mother's arms – turned to one page, which bore a drawing of a child in the arms of his guardian angel …

            Walking slowly and gently to avoid jarring the child's injured limb, Erik took far longer than usual on his trek through the fifth cellar and eventually to the lakeshore where the little boat was moored.  As he laid his precious cargo against the cushions, he deliberately looked away from the shadows cast by the lantern's light into her golden curls.  _This time it will be different, he assured himself, though the admission caused him great pain; for it was quite possible he was repeating all his old mistakes, no matter what his errand of mercy might be …  But he put that thought down forcefully, for it had reminded him of Christine's departure; and anything that would remind him of _that _was something that he wanted no part of.  _

            But as he turned his gaze away from the lovely child sleeping against the silk pillows, he noticed a small basket placed in the prow of the boat.  "Nadir, you've done it again," Erik said softly, even laughing a little.  Nadir's baskets, full of food, drink, and various other little niceties, had been his only communication these seven years …

            "You may be willing to starve yourself down here, Erik, but I will not permit it,"  Nadir had said emphatically on the occasion of his last visit.  "Even if you never speak to me again, I am going to provide for you until you give me reason to believe you are cable of doing so yourself."  

            The Persian had been appalled at Erik's apparent careless attitude about his health and eating habits.  At that moment, Erik had merely laughed scornfully; but he had grudgingly accepted Nadir's offer as long as he did not disturb his precious solitude without invitation.  

            Ever since, Nadir had sent Darius down to tend to the basket every three days.

            But as he considered this latest delivery, a slight movement from the boat's stern reminded Erik of his duty toward his little foundling.  Gently he pushed the boat away from the landing and began to pole them smoothly across.  They were soon at his front door and he disembarked; arms laden with a sleeping child and a basket full of groceries, he might have resembled any Parisian's idea of a family man.

            "She is not on the roof, mademoiselle ..."

            "I have not seen the girl, Meg – I'm sorry ..."

            "I've checked all the boxes and she isn't there ..."

            Meg felt certain she would go mad with worry over Elaine, and these negative reports did nothing to calm her nerves.  She simply could not find her little charge anywhere!

            The afternoon's rehearsal had gone well, as had the ballet practice some ninety minutes afterward.  A few of the younger girls were out of step and seemed distracted, but that had been of little consequence.  The trouble had begun when she had tried to collect Elaine to go home for supper ...  

            The little girl had not been backstage spying on the stagehands, or in the costume department trying on the old gowns that were no longer used.  The usual people had no clue as to her whereabouts.  

            The ballet rats, when assembled in Meg's dressing room, would only admit to having seen her in the backstage area before rehearsal.  

            "But I have not seen her anytime recently," Agnes Trevezant, the leading lady's younger sister-in-law said in a very polite voice.  "Have any of you girls seen her?"

            A few of the ballet girls looked at the floor in silence; several others volunteered various answers corroborating Agnes'.

            "Thank you, girls – you may all go home now," Meg said quietly, pressing her fingers to her temple as if she had a headache.  

            "I hope she turns up, Mademoiselle Giry," Agnes had just said with something of an odd turn to her voice; but she was cut short by the entrance of the diva.

            "What are you doing here, Agnes?  Don't you know that your mother has several very important activities planned for you this evening?  You must come away at once."  Collecting Agnes and her things together, Madame Trevezant turned on Meg only once they were nearly out the door.  "I do hope you find your little friend soon," she said in a withering tone.  "It must be awful to know that you've misplaced someone else's child."  

            Meg burned to retort, but she was dismayed; that the news should have traveled so quickly through the company that Elaine was lost!  

            The rest of _corps d'ballet _slowly filtered out into the corridors in pairs and trios; two of the younger girls lingered near the door.

            "Yvonne?  Should we have told Meg where we last saw Elaine?" Belinda whispered fervently to the girl with whom she shared a dressing-room.

            "I don't know, Belinda," replied she, clasping her friend's hand in fear.  "Agnes said we'd be thrown out of the _corps if we didn't do as she said ... and she could do that too … Madame Trevezant practically runs this theatre …"_

            "But it just doesn't seem right to lie to Meg – what if Elaine's lost in the cellars?"

            "She can't be – we looked for her, didn't we?  We went down to that dreadful third cellar and she'd just disappeared – the Phantom must have taken her off!" Yvonne shuddered involuntarily.  "And what if _he finds out that we told?"  _

            Belinda's lower lip was trembling, but she retorted, "Meg says there _isn't any Phantom of the Opera …"_

            "Well, Agnes says there _is_," protested her companion, tugging her off down the corridor towards the safety of their dressing-room; "and she says he is in love with her sister-in-law – and it must be true!  Why else would the managers do so much to please her, when she's so horrid …"

            Elaine tossed a bit in her sleep and then awoke; the first thing she realized that she did not recognize her strange surroundings.  The second thing she realized was that she couldn't move – everything seemed to hurt her, and her right leg was stuck fast in a strange contraption.  She tried to pull free of it, but an intense pain shot up her leg, and she could only fall back against the cushions where she lay.  Not knowing exactly what was going on, she could only  shriek, "Help!" 

            Immediately, a door that she hadn't noticed opened and a tall man entered – a man wearing a black tuxedo, and a strange white mask!  Elaine's eyes widened and she wanted to scream; but he looked at her with eyes that were almost sad, and she swallowed hard against her fear.  "W-who are y-you?" she managed to stammer out.  "W-where am I?"

            The strange man stood perfectly still for a moment, watching her carefully before replying, "My name is Erik, and you are in my house."  He paused, feeling somewhat awkward – for it had been some years since he had spoken to another person! – before adding, "And I am glad you are awake at last, because I have been wanting to ask you a similar question: who are you?"

            Elaine eyed the dark-clad gentleman skeptically.  His appearance was very alarming, but his voice was different from any grown-up's she had ever heard.  And grown-ups never called themselves by given names!  They were always "Monsieur," or "Madame" … even Meg was "Aunt Meg" …

             "Monsieur Erik," she gasped, for she had shifted and again felt a stabbing pain, "take this thing off my leg, please!  I can't move, and it's hurting me!"

            "You are not supposed to move," Erik answered, "and your leg hurts because you have broken it.  This brace will help it heal, and will not make you uncomfortable as long as you lie still."  

            Elaine puzzled over these facts a moment. "So I'm not allowed to play?"

            Erik laughed a little.  It was a beautiful laugh in Elaine's opinion, a laugh that sounded like church bells tolling.  "No, I'm afraid not.  You won't be able to walk anytime soon."

            "But how will I get home?" the child cried.  "Won't everyone worry about where I am?"

            The little girl's words stirred many emotions in Erik's brain, but his reply was calm.  "Well, it will be quite impossible for you to go anywhere right now, I'm afraid.  But I was hoping you might like to be my guest here, until you've recovered a bit."  For some reason, much seemed to depend upon her reaction to his plan; for he knew he could not return the child in her current state.  He would never be able to escape capture … "Would you like that?"

            Elaine looked about the room; it was filled with old furniture, quaintly carved with musical notes and staves.  It was lit with candles and lamps, and there were flowers; the walls were covered with polished wood and pretty white paper. "This looks like my Mama's room used to," she said cautiously.

            "Is that so?" her companion responded with curiosity.  He had, of course, had little experience with children, and he found her behavior unusual and interesting.

            "Yes, monsieur – but we had to move away.  My Papa died, and Cousin Henri came to take our house away ..."  Her eyes opened wide as she whispered conspiratorially, "He was mean, monsieur."

            Erik's expression changed subtly as she spoke, for behind the mask he was suppressing an urge to laugh again.  But presently he sobered, and asked, "Where is your mother, child?"        

             "I'm not sure, monsieur," his little charge replied, her eyes filling with tears; "but she writes letters."  

            This childish sorrow plucked at Erik's heartstrings, and he wished he could comfort her in some way; but as he looked on, she raised her fingers to her throat and let out a wail when they encountered just the lace at her collar.  "My locket!" she cried. "It is gone!"  The tears that had threatened now came rolling out of her blue eyes.

            "There now!" Erik said, going down on one knee beside the bed.  "Don't be upset, _cherie …"_

            "But why not, monsieur?  My Mama g-g-gave me that l-locket!"  She appeared to be building up steam for a good loud cry, and Erik knew he must do something at once to spare himself the noise of it …

            "Because it is behind your ear," he told her, with something that looked like a smile hovering about his face.

            "B-behind my ear?" Elaine swallowed her tantrum for a moment and began to search with her fingers.  "But there's nothing there …"

            Erik's gloved hand brushed against Elaine's cheek and brought forth the locket.  He held it out to her by the now mended chain, and she seized it joyfully.  "Oh! thank you, monsieur!" she squealed with delight.  "But how …"

            "By magic," he replied good-naturedly.  "Now, won't you tell me your name?"

            The little girl's fear and apprehension seemed to melt away, and she answered him at once.  "It's Elaine!" she cried, her blue eyes sparkling, "and you have saved my life, monsieur!"

            "Oh no," Erik protested, though his tone was leant some levity by her childish charm, "I don't think I did anything as great as that."

            "But you did," Elaine argued, "because if you hadn't found me, then _the Phantom would have!"  She regarded him with wide eyes.  "Do you know about the Phantom?  Madame Giry says he isn't real, but Agnes says …"_

            Erik tried to put down his reaction to these words, but he could not help the pangs the child's chatter caused.  He listened to her prattle, trying to pretend he had never heard these stories – and it was somewhat true, for the tales had changed somewhat since he last paid attention to them.  Apparently he was now said to be the champion of Lucia Trevezant, which could be no further from the truth … though the same old tendency to blame accidents and misplaced props upon the Phantom seemed unaltered.  Gritting his teeth, Erik waited for the child to run out of breath.  "I hope that you will feel safe here, then," he said mildly when Elaine was finally quiet. "If you need something, will you call for me?"

            "Yes, monsieur," Elaine replied, snuggling down under the covers that her mysterious benefactor pulled up around her shoulders.

            "Call me Erik," he insisted gently, even as he slipped out of the room.

            Christine opened the letter from Meg eagerly.  She had been restless and uneasy of late; and though she tried to convince herself it was because she often did not eat properly on the train between performances, she knew in her heart that she was homesick for Elaine.  And so she unsealed Meg's new letter voraciously, never pausing to consider that it had come rather soon on the heels of the last.  

             "Dearest Christine," it opened innocently enough; but as Christine read on, the small longing she had previously tended for her daughter yawned wide, suddenly collapsing into an abyss of fear.

"Dearest Christine,

            I hardly know what to write – for I have bad news – and I must implore you to hurry back to Paris as soon as ever you can manage it – 

            Elaine is missing.  

            I saw her last myself two days ago, before the morning rehearsal.  By the end of the day, I was unable to find her again.  I have looked everywhere and questioned everyone; and though the _petites rats_ told me they saw her sometime later that afternoon, no one seems to know where she has gotten to.

            I had always admonished her very strongly not to stray into the cellars, but nevertheless several firemen were good enough to go down in search of her.  They went only so far as the third cellar, but I am convinced she would not have gone down at all; as curious as she is, I know she would never have ventured alone into the dark.

            I am so desperately sorry, Christine!  The search continues day and night, and has begun to branch outward into the neighborhood surrounding the theatre.  I pray you will come as soon as you can – and that you can find it in your heart to forgive my laxness as a guardian!

                                                                                    yours in haste –  

                                                                                                Meg."

            Christine felt like she had been repeatedly slapped across the face.  Her precious child – lost in the Opera house – _or perhaps even worse_ ...  The thought came unbidden to her mind, but persisted as she recalled the bustling district surrounding the Opera … how many carriages passed there each day?  How easy would it be for a curious child to be lured into one?

            In distraction, Christine reread Meg's letter; and as she reached the section that mentioned the cellars, her stomach lurched.

            Meg had assured Christine that Erik had not been heard from in years …yet she could not suppress the initial reaction, the almost natural bend her thoughts took towards him …

            "No!" she cried, fairly leaping to her feet.  "I won't think about it – I'll go crazy if I do …"  And with that she flew to make the necessary arrangements.  Half an hour later she stood in the tiny room she had rented, a trunk open on the bed, various articles of clothing strewn about, speaking in a very swift and panicked voice to the messenger she had sent for.  "Pray make my apologies to the _____," she said, speaking of the family she had been engaged to entertain for the evening.  "I am very sorry, but I must go at once – there is … a matter of urgent import that cannot be delayed.  Tell them …"  She turned on impulse to her writing-desk and retrieved the address of the theatre where her current company was engaged.  "Tell them there is another soprano, named Amelie, who might be willing to take my place at the _soiree tonight.  They can reach her at this address …"_

            As the young man took her money and her message and left her standing alone in the disheveled apartment, she was nearly overcome with hysteria.  But reigning herself as tightly as she could, she wiped away her tears.

            "Elaine does not need me to panic into error," she told herself firmly.  "I must remain calm and rational …  In all likelihood she is hiding somewhere at the Opera, waiting for one of us to find her ... if she is playing some sort of game, she will come out when she tires of it ..."  

            But recalling that Meg's letter had been dated almost a week previously, she feared for the worst – that perhaps the child had lost herself in the Opera's labyrinthine passages, or worse, that she had hurt herself and was unable to find her way to safety ...  

            Somehow Christine managed to vanquish her fears with the razor-thin sword of courage, whose steel had been tempered by a mother's love.  By the time the cab summoned by her landlady to convey her to the rail station, she was calm and resolute: she would find Elaine.  

             "And may I be prevented from doing harm to anyone who hinders me,"  she prayed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Homecoming**

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 6**

            "Erik!"  Elaine exclaimed as she came stumping into the music room.  Erik hastily scratched out the last bit of the orchestration over which he had been bending, and turned towards his little charge.  It was with some measure of pride that he watched her approach, for she had been under his care for less than two weeks and was already out of bed, walking with the aid of a pair of crutches he had designed for her.

            "Good morning, Elaine," he said warmly. "How are you today?"

            "Hungry!" she said in a tone that implied that she knew her slightest request would be obeyed.  Erik knew this was no less than fact, and wondered vaguely if he did not over-indulge this little visitor, who had managed to warm his heart out of its long hibernation.

            "But of course, mademoiselle," he replied, a kind, gentle tone dressing the phrase until it could have outshone the king's court for beauty.  "What would you like?"

            "Oh, milk and cake, please!"

            Erik considered the request carefully.  Nadir had sent enough food for him to live on, but not for him and a small child who constantly wanted sweet things … the last of the cake he had sent days ago had comprised Elaine's tea-time meal the day before.  But perhaps … yes, the Daroga's basket would certainly arrive today.  "I'm afraid the cake is all gone, _cherie _… is there something else you'd like?"

            Elaine was not swayed by Erik's excuse.  "My Mama always had our servants bake a cake."

            Her words, though spoiled, gave him some relief; for he was reminded that, at least, it was not _his_ failing if the child were somewhat willful.  "Well, my dear, I think you know we haven't any servants here."

            "Then … then you could go to the store," the child persisted. 

            He could not help but laugh a little, despite the pangs of memory Elaine's insistence bred.  "I can't just walk into a store, Elaine."

            "But why not?"

            _But why not … __ah, the innocence of youth!  For once he too had struggled to understand why his mother's house was always empty, why no one but the priest ever came to call – or at least to speak a kind word …  But how to explain the cruelty of shallow hearts to this little child?  He tried to lighten his tone for her benefit. "Most other people don't care for my company."_

            Elaine stared at him a moment, puzzling over his words; but something in his eyes gave her to know she ought not to question what he had said.  "Then they are stupid," she finally asserted, lifting her dainty little nose into the air.

            He wanted to … was it to laugh, or weep?  Erik bowed his head for a moment.  "Perhaps there will be a cake later this afternoon.  But in the meantime, will you have some oatmeal?"

            Elaine wrinkled her nose a bit.  "Are you sure you don't have any cake?"

            "Positive."

            "All right," she said with a sigh.  "I'll eat the oatmeal."

            Erik laughed and made his retreat to the kitchen; but even in the quiet domesticity of that room he could no longer avoid thinking about his situation seriously.  He had a small child in his house, and soon the caretakers of that small child would overcome their fear of the depths of the Opera.  A fear of harm coming to their little one would overtake their apprehension concerning dark, and spiders, and ghost stories; and they would come and take Elaine away.  Silently, Erik raged against these people, whomsoever they might be.  If she were …

            _If she had belonged to him, he should never have let her out of his sight, nor allowed a day to pass while she was missing. _

            In a few minutes he set a bowl before his little invalid and watched fondly as she breakfasted.  He knew he had no right to keep her, for she did _not_ belong to him … and though a few days more would be required until she would be able to get around without help, he knew that if he kept her presence here a secret he might be tempted never to reveal it, to never permit the eventuality of her departure.

            Resolutely, even as he kept watch over the child, he began a mental draft of a letter to Nadir.

            Christine arrived in Paris by train on a Tuesday afternoon, and within an hour she had wrestled through the crowds at Gar du'Nord, shamelessly hijacked a cab from beneath the nose of a rather irate nobleman, and burst through the door of Meg's dressing-room.  The little ballerina was taking her tea, but jumped up at once. 

            "Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry!" she cried, frantically embracing her friend and bursting into just-as-frantic tears.

            "Don't cry, Meg," Christine said emphatically, taking her friend firmly by the shoulders.  "I know you have taken good care of her.  I could not have left Elaine in the care of anyone I trusted more."  Hugging Meg close to her again, she spoke on.  "But now we must focus on finding her.  I am not angry with you, dear – but we must work quickly."

            "Agreed,"  Meg said, still sniffing a little from the outburst of tears.  

            "Do you know any more about what happened?"  Christine asked in a solemn tone.

            "Nothing new has come to light since I wrote," her friend replied miserably.  "The flies have been practically ripped to pieces – the boxes and dressing-rooms scoured – and the firemen who went into the cellars reported no signs of anyone having been down there in years.  The police have been informed, although I must admit they have been of little help.  They have 'better things to do than to look for runaways,' you see – I wanted to pummel the detective who said that to me.  As if Elaine would run away …"

            "No, she wouldn't run away,"  Christine answered meditatively.  "She can be a foolish, headstrong child, but I cannot imagine her doing something like that."

            They both fell silent, and Meg contemplated her friend's visage.  She was beautiful as she ever was, although was extremely pale; but there was something different – her eyes.  They were full of fire and spirit ...  

            Meg cast her mind back to the earlier days of their friendship.  Christine had always been dreamy, her mind wandering through memories of the past or fancies of the future.  This was the first time that Meg had seen her living in the moment at hand.  The change was a subtle one, but very real and it made all the difference.

            Finally Christine broke the silence.  Rising, she ran a distracted hand down her dress, which was somewhat askew from her hasty travel.  "I must start right away – but I suppose I should also see the managers first …"

            Meg shivered a little.  This Christine was nothing like the one that she had known a few years ago; there was a steel backbone to the woman who had taken the place of the young girl.  She had come into her own power and was no longer dependent on anyone – not on a fickle nobleman or the memories of a dead father.  This new vision of Christine was inspiring – and yet, on some level, disconcerting … but Meg quickened her steps to match her friend's, and they stepped into the corridor together.

            Darius entered the room on silent feet and paused for a moment to take in his master, who sat at the window watching the bustling street below.  Nadir had not been the same since Erik had refused to see him, and this had saddened Darius greatly.  After their many years together, the bond between them was more than just one of master and servant; he considered himself to be Nadir's friend.  It was with a small measure of joy in his heart that he handed to the Daroga the small note he had discovered in the empty basket he had just exchanged for a full one in the cellars of the Opera Garnier.

            "What …" Nadir began; but the significant expression in Darius' eyes implored him to seek the answer within the folded paper.  Nadir's own expression brightened considerably as he recognized the bold hand emblazoned therein; with shaky hands, he cradled and drank in Erik's missive.

            It was very short; but then, the Erik Nadir had known had preferred his cool, clipped phrases and smartly creased clothes to the excess and drama of the harem.  "But how things change,"  Nadir added to himself ruefully, remembering the things his friend had done – and what he had become – since leaving the beauty and danger of Persia.

"Dear Nadir,

            I confess that this must seem rather strange, having a note from me after all of this time, but I am writing to request your advice and judgment in a certain matter.  

            If you would bestow upon me the honor of your presence, my house will be open to you this evening.  Please use the door on the Rue Scribe, as I cannot vouch for the safety of any of the other old entrances.

            I remain, sir, 

your obedient servant – and old friend – 

                                                                        Erik"

            A strange sense of calm descended upon the Daroga.  Finally, the silence of nearly seven years was broken; at last he had been called upon to do more for Erik than merely proclaim his friendship. "Darius, I must have a carriage this evening … there is a call I must pay …"  He considered a moment, then added to his valet's retreating form, "And pray, prepare a special feast to be taken down.  And I shall gather together some books …"

            "At your command, Daroga."  Darius bowed slightly and went about his business with his usual silence.  Nadir stood a moment longer, for he could not help but wonder what could have changed Erik's mind – so abruptly, and after such a long separation.  

            But he pushed these thoughts away; for his heart should be light.  At last, out of the depths, Erik had extended his hand in friendship.  There could be no ill in such a miracle!

            Meg stood at Christine's side as she explained her presence to the managers and asked permission to search the grounds.  At first they were shocked to be face to face with Christine Daae again; but they were equally as dumbfounded to discover that the misplaced child was hers.  

            "Madame," M. Andre wheedled, "we are, of course, deeply sorry for what has happened ..."

            "Oh, stop the pretense, Monsieur," Christine retorted, much to the toadying manager's chagrin, "and give me permission to search the Opera myself, and to the best of my ability; do that, and I will bother you no further."

            M. Firmin, ever mindful of his pocketbook, replied, "Of course you can't mean to imply that _we _have been at all lax or negligent in our own searches, Madame.  I do dare say that I hope you don't intend to cause problems for the Opera."

            "I want my child back, and I'm going to find her."  Christine swept an agitated hand across her forehead.  "If that is your definition of causing problems, then yes, I am going to cause them.  But if you are concerned about lawsuits …"  The word made one corner of Firmin's mouth jerk nervously.  "If I am permitted to find her unimpeded, I see no reason to suspect that will be necessary."

            "How can you be so self-concerned?" Meg interjected.  "Don't you realize that the child could be in danger?  Every moment she is missing …"

            Firmin interrupted her with a nasty sneer.  "Meg Giry, you are walking on dangerous ground.  If _you _are at all concerned for your career, I would recommend that you keep your mouth shut."

            Christine had quickly grown impatient with the conversation, and made no effort to conceal her disgust with the managers.  "So what is the answer, gentlemen?"  The inflection she placed on the last word seemed only to accentuate the irony of applying it to two such persons.

            The "gentlemen" exchanged glances.  Andre's was distracted, as he had always had the better conscience of the two; but Firmin's was steely and sought only for his partner's agreement – or at the very least, his lack of will to protest.  Finally Firmin cleared his throat.  "I do apologize, Madame de Chagny; but the answer must be 'no.'  The police believe she is nowhere within the Opera's walls.  Therefore, you must appreciate the generosity of _our _continuing to search for her at all.  The efforts have been ongoing for the past week; parties have been formed, patterns and schedules established.  I can imagine that as the child's parent you would want to participate; but frankly, I believe your presence here is little more than a distraction at this point."  

            Meg stood silently as she observed the effect of Firmin's words on her friend.  It seemed that Christine's anger had taken on the power to transform; for her body became tense with it, and she seemed almost to coil in preparation to strike, like a serpent.  Firmin, despite his blustering, seemed to notice Christine's reaction as well; for he spoke on, this time with a less emphatic tone.  "If she is here, Madame, one of our searchers will find her.  The moment we hear anything, you will be informed."

            For a moment, Meg wondered whether Christine might not lash out against Firmin; but after a brief pause, she replied.  "Very well, gentlemen; I understand your position, and know we will get no further by arguing.  Keep me informed as to the search's progress." With that, Christine seized Meg's hand and, turning on her heel, stalked out of the office. 

            "Of course, Madame, of course,"  Andre simpered behind them.  "Perhaps … as a gesture of our friendship … a box for this evening's performance …"  But if she had heard his bleating, Christine made no response; and it was all Meg could do to fix them both with a look of pure poison as her friend dragged her through the door.

            "Christine!" she whispered as they hurried along the dimly lit backstage passages.  "You _aren't _going to give up, are you?" 

            "I am going to scour this place from top to bottom until I find her, with or without their permission," came the emphatic reply.  Christine was turning her head in all directions, re-acclimating herself to the building and the darkness.  "And I'm going to start in my old dressing room."

            "Of course," Meg nodded.  "That will be no trouble, it is still unoccupied … but Christine!  You don't think ..."  

            The set of Christine's jaw was grim and determined; she was incensed with the managers and their apparent non-concern for Elaine's safety, and now was certainly no time to have a conversation about Erik.  Why he came into her mind she did not know, for the Girys both believed him either dead or gone … She replied simply, "She may have found a secret passage, decided to explore it, and been unable to get out again.  The corridor beyond my mirror lets out farther down than the third cellar; I'm going to start the search that way."

            Meg looked over at Christine.  "Would you please take some rest first, Christine?  You are as pale as …" she stumbled over so easy, so pregnant an expression "… as a ghost ..."  But she regained her purpose and insisted,  "I won't let you go without me either – but the performance begins so soon … You could have a nap, and I will return for you after the curtain."

            Christine's iron-clad expression softened.  "All right, dear Meg; I cannot defy you, too."  

            Once they reached Meg's dressing room, the little ballerina arranged a blanket and pillow on the low, threadbare couch.

            "I'm sorry it isn't better, Christine …"

            "It's perfect," Christine assured he; but her wan smile cut Meg to the quick.  

             "I'll be back soon," she affirmed quietly, even as she took her leave.

            The door clicked shut and immediately Christine was flooded with a sensation of guilt; she understood Meg's desire to be of help to her, but she simply could not delay her search for Elaine one moment longer.  Distrusting the managers' commitment to finding her daughter, she felt certain that any time spent waiting would be time wasted.

            But even as she prepared to set out, she checked her watch.  There were places she could search and still be back within the time tonight's show would occupy; Meg need never know she had begun without her …

            Resolute, Christine placed her hand upon the doorknob; but before she could turn it, there sounded a timid knock from the other side of the  door.  Trying to banish panic from her voice, Christine withdrew a few steps into the room and called out, "Come in …"

            To her great surprise, the opening door revealed two little ballet girls, who each gasped and reached for the other's hand.  "We beg your pardon, Madame," one of them whispered nervously; "we … we were expecting Meg …"

            "We need to see her right away, if we may, Madame," the other, apparently the elder, spoke up.  "It's very important …"

            Christine was naturally impatient, but she spoke kindly to the girls.  "Meg has gone to her curtain call," she said, "but if you tell me what is so important, I will pass along your message."

            The girls exchanged a furtive glance; finally, shifting nervously, the elder replied, "It is about the little girl, Elaine …" 

            Christine's heart almost stopped; but she managed to move slowly to the door and close it gently to ensure them privacy.  "I'm Elaine's mother," she said in as steady and yet commanding a voice as she could muster.  "Do you know where she is?"

            A look of horror crossed the older girl's face, and she seemed to lose her tongue.  The younger girl stared at her for a moment, then jostled her hand.  "We _have_ to tell her, Yvonne!"

            "Please," Christine implored, holding on as tightly as she could to her composure, "I am almost mad with worry!  Please tell me what you know!"

            Yvonne swallowed hard, and tears began to form in her eyes.  "Belinda –" she choked out.

            The younger girl seemed to find courage she never knew she possessed.  "We should have told Meg days ago, Madame – we … we were some of the last people to see Elaine."  

            Yvonne was sobbing openly now, and clutched Belinda's hand as she continued.  "Some of us went down into the cellars – it was Agnes Trevezant's idea, Madame! and many of us are more frightened of her than … than of _the Phantom _…"  She took a deep breath and pressed on.  "We had made it to the second cellar, and were about to go back; but Agnes threw Elaine's locket down the stairs into the third cellar, and dared Elaine to go after it."

             "She did," Yvonne broke in, her voice thick with tears.  "Elaine wasn't afraid of Agnes … she wasn't afraid of anything …"

             "We waited at the top of the steps," Belinda continued, "and Elaine was calling up to us … but then we heard her scream …"

            "She disappeared!" Yvonne bawled, near hysterics now.  "The Phantom must have taken her!"

            Christine struggled with the urge to grab and shake each girl in turn.  "Why didn't you tell anyone before this?" she cried frantically.

            "Agnes …" Yvonne blubbered.

            Belinda hugged Yvonne distractedly.  "Agnes said that Elaine was just playing … trying to show her up for making her go down all alone, and that we should just leave her to her game … but then, when Elaine never came back, she made us all swear not to tell!"

            "But why should it matter what Agnes says?" Christine asked in amazement.

            "Because she's Madame Trevezant's sister-in-law," Yvonne burst out, her guilt and misery dissipating in the face of her dislike for Agnes.  "The managers do whatever Madame Trevezant tells them – and Agnes said she could have us all fired …"

            Christine was flooded with mingled sensations of horror, anger and disgust.  To think that such petty favoritism might have endangered her child … "There now, girls; I won't tell a soul what you've told me," she assured them, though the hand she placed on their shoulders was somewhat absent-minded.  "Thank you for being truthful … you may go now …"

            Relieved of their great burden of guilt, Yvonne and Belinda dried their eyes and scurried off towards their own dressing room.  Meanwhile, Christine had all but forgotten her promise to Meg; only moments later she stood before the great mirror in the dusty old dressing room which had once belonged to her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Homecoming**

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 7**

            Erik's sketchbook lay open on his lap and his hand scurried over its surface, deftly capturing the image of the sleeping Elaine; but  a sudden sound intruded upon his concentration.  It was the alarm which guarded the nearby lakeshore – how small his domain had become over the years!  Only a few of his alarms still functioned now, but these he maintained with dedication; his reach was close these days, but he would not allow it to be encroached upon any further.

            "That will be Nadir," he thought with some measure of joy, and packing away his sketches he left Elaine peacefully sleeping in the music room.  Proceeding to the Louis-Phillipe room, Erik placed his sketchbook in a cupboard amongst many pieces of entablature and manuscript paper and turned to the door, making ready to greet his guest.

            The sound of someone fumbling for the front doorknob brought a smile to his face; Nadir had always disliked Erik's complicated contraptions, and he could picture him now, standing in the dimness, searching the rock's face for its hidden trigger and swearing softly to himself in Persian.

            When the door finally swung inward, he called out jovially, "Welcome back, Nadir.  I do hope you've come prepared for a defeat at chess; it's been so long since I had a proper game …" 

            The Persian had wandered through the Opera's basements in mingled joy and trepidation, but to hear Erik's voice take on so welcoming a tone banished anxiety from his mind.  "Is that why you've asked me here?" he countered as he stepped across the threshold.  "You are hungry for someone to beat at chess?"

            Erik caught the joke in Nadir's words and laughed heartily; then, relieving him of some of the books he carried, ushered him inside.

            Not many minutes later, Nadir clung tightly to his tumbler; Erik's sudden revelation had made him nearly drop it on the floor.  

             "Don't look so daft, Daroga," said he; "I know it may seem a surprise, but …"

             "But what, Erik?" demanded Nadir.  "A _surprise_?  Is that all you can think to call it?  When you have prevented even me from keeping company with you all these years …!"

            Erik waved aside these histrionics.  "You are overreacting," he said calmly; "it was neither personal, nor intentional."

             "You simply _found her lying in the cellars?"_

             "Nadir!  Your incredulity is extremely disconcerting."

            The Daroga looked properly abashed by Erik's softly spoken rebuke.  "I apologize, Erik.  You know I do not doubt you; but you must at least try to see this from my point of view …"

            Nodding, Erik took another sip of sherry.  "I do.  Had I been told, even that morning, what would happen and how I would act … I myself would not have believed it."  He leaned forward in his chair.  "But _you _must believe me, Nadir; for it happened just as I said.  I found her lying unconscious in the fourth cellar; she must have taken a tumble down the stairs.  And she was injured; so I brought her here, and here she has been for nearly two weeks now."

             "Two weeks," Nadir replied.  "And has no one come in search of her?"

             "Not as far as I can tell," Erik said, grimly flexing his fingers about the delicate glass; "I must say, Nadir, I think very little of her mother … Elaine speaks of her so lovingly, but that she would be so absent as not to miss her child!"

             "Perhaps she has," the Daroga ventured, "and has simply not yet found her way down."

             "My alarms in the higher regions of the cellars have been in disrepair for some time," Erik admitted with a note of – what was it? – sorrow or shame?  "But surely the stagehands – the firemen – any member of the cast might have shown her the way!"

             "I had thought," Nadir said gently, "that there was only _one _member of the cast who knew the way to your door."

             "Hmm," Erik responded, somewhat ruffled.  He had known that the ever-curious Daroga would want to discuss Christine, but he had no intentions of doing so at the moment.  There were more important matters at hand …

            When his taciturn companion made no further reply, Nadir thought it best not to pry any farther on the subject of Mademoiselle Daae.  "I must admit it is a problematic situation," he said.  "What do you intend to do?"

             "I don't know," Erik replied slowly.  "There must be someone charged with her care in her mother's absence, but if they are looking for her, I have had no sign of it; and I can do nothing to discover it without being discovered myself."  He sighed heavily.  "And I cannot simply drop her at the base of the Grand Escalier for the same reason."

             "Discovered?" Nadir queried, eyebrow raised.

             "Daroga." Erik sighed again.  "Do you think I am so foolish?  Everyone above –" here he jerked his chin upwards to indicate all those who trod the boards five levels over their heads – "think me dead, or disappeared.  I have been careful these seven years to hide myself.  If I were to give any clue, even the slightest hint, that I remain … can you imagine?  Firmin and Andre were very stubborn in their persistence; they rooted through these cellars for nearly a year looking for me.  Without my hidden compartments I should surely have been murdered; and now, their hatred of me is cold … but not gone, Nadir, I assure you …"

            The Persian pressed his fingertips together to form a steeple, and rested his chin against them.  "I understand," he muttered.  "But this further complicates the matter … there must be some other option!"

            Erik regarded him for a moment.  "I had hoped you might see it that way," he finally ventured.

             "I?  Erik – did you think I would cavalierly choose your destruction?  Am I such a poor friend?"

             "No," he smiled, "you are a great one.  And I know you will be pleased with the solution I propose."

            Nadir felt suddenly compelled to go on his guard.  "What is this solution?"

             "Why, that you shall take her," Erik replied simply.

            Springing from his chair, Nadir looked down at his friend with disbelief.  "_I _take her?  _I?"_

             "It is only logical," said Erik, who was regarding the Daroga with a measure of quiet concern.  "You are overreacting again, Nadir; pray seat yourself, and I will explain."

            Nadir grudgingly obliged him, but did not speak until he had poured himself another glass of brandy – a double.  "Go on then," he prompted Erik gruffly.

             "I need your help, Nadir," he began slowly, his voice fluid and full of all its old persuasive power.  "I need your ears and eyes out in the city, to discover if Elaine's guardians have been as sick with worry over her disappearance as they ought.  If there has been an effort to find her, I am sure you will discover it.  But if there has not …"  His words trailed off, as if he were about to say something he knew the Daroga would object to.

            Shooting him a severe look – for he had not yet overcome his shock – Nadir urged him onward.  "If there has not …"

            Erik straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin proudly.  "Is it so inconceivable, Nadir?  I have come to care for the child – and if her mother has abandoned her, and her guardians lost her, why should I not take her in?"

            Nadir did drop the glass this time, spilling liquor all over Erik's fine oriental carpet.  "Take her in?  Erik, what are you saying?"

             "Oh, come off it," he retorted, stooping to mop up the mess.  "I have been alone in the world long enough, Nadir; and Elaine has become dear to me.  We should not stay here, of course; this small house was built for a solitary soul, and children need the light of day.  I will adopt her, as my own daughter, and I shall spin for her a life that only ill-gotten riches can purchase!"

            With eyes as wide as saucers, the Daroga shook his head.  "I cannot say whether this plan is wise, Erik …"

             "I did not consult you on its wisdom," retorted he.  "I ask only if you will help me."

            Soberly, Nadir regarded his friend; it was so strange to be speaking with him so easily, as though years had not passed since the last time they did so.  And even more unsettling for Nadir, Erik spoke as he had in Persia, with as much will and purpose as …

            … as if he had never laid eyes on Christine Daae.

            _Far be it from me to deny him a life, Nadir's conscience conceded.  For he knew that, despite his mottled past, Erik had it in his heart to be kind to a child.  Fighting back the tears that rose at the years-old memory of his son, Nadir sighed and clapped a hand on Erik's shoulder._

             "I will," he pledged.

            Erik moved about Elaine's room with such expert silence that the child never stirred as he gathered together a small valise for her.  Finally all was set in order; he handed the bag to Nadir, and knelt at the child's bedside.  

             "Elaine," he called to her; and the little girl's eyes fluttered open as if his voice controlled their movement.

             "Erik," she smiled, hugging him impetuously about the neck.  "What have you brought me for supper?"

             "Nothing just now, _mon cheri," he said; "but I have brought another surprise."  He beckoned to the Persian, who emerged quietly from the shadows.  "This is my friend Nadir."_

            Nadir stared at the child who regarded him with liquid eyes; he knew her.  She had captured so many hearts at the gala that night …

            Erik was too preoccupied with his foundling, and Elaine seemed not to notice Nadir's mildly stricken expression.  "Monsieur," she greeted him in a polite little voice, "are you … a moor?"

            Erik threw his head back and laughed riotously at this.  "You must excuse her, Nadir; she is quite a pert little miss, always saying things she oughtn't …"  Then, explaining to Elaine that she would be going to stay with Nadir for a while, he bundled her up into his arms and carried her through the cellars to the door at the Rue Scribe.  Nadir lagged behind with the suitcase, scowling.

            Presently they had secured a hansom, and Erik had ventured out into the dimly-lit nighttime Rue to tuck Elaine into its plush cushions.  But as he held the door aside for Nadir to ascend, the Daroga pressed it quietly closed.  "I know you did not ask me, Erik; but I do not think this is wise.  The child …"

             "I will be along soon," Erik interrupted him, "perhaps tomorrow evening; I will close my house and join you as soon as I can.  Come now, Nadir," he chided his friend with a smile.  "She will be no trouble.  Fill her with cake and milk, and she will love you."

            For a moment, Nadir toyed with the idea of telling Erik about the gala; but recalling that even _L'Epoque_ had been ignorant of Elaine's true identity, he decided it would serve no present purpose. Nodding silently, he quickly ascended into the cab.

            As he began to assemble his more valuable and necessary belongings, Erik could not help but notice how quiet his house had become in the short time Elaine had been gone from it.  She had not been with him long, but she had wound herself very tightly around his heart; and he found he was not altogether sorry to be leaving this lonely place for another, where he might enjoy the music of her childish laughter and the comfort of Nadir's friendship.

            But in the face of joy, he had not forgotten his old caution; he tensed instinctively as the sound of an alarm rang through the cavernous house.

             "Nadir would have no need to return," he whispered to the silence.

            But the intruder seemed to know the cellars nearly as well as the Daroga; for the alarm was placed at the edge of the lake, and before long Erik could hear the sounds of someone scrabbling at the front door, seeking out the hidden catch.  His mind clamored with two distinctly different sensations: curiosity and the realization that there is no way of escaping now …

            Grimly he acknowledged it: he had failed to keep safe any of the formerly well-maintained hidden exits from his home, preferring in his hermitage to simply secure them against intrusion.  Not even he could break through one now without noise, certainly sufficient to inform his visitor where he had gone, and perhaps even enough to bring down more invaders from above.  He might very well be trapped … but steeling himself to that fact, he hurried to the panel which concealed Christine's old bedroom.  He had evaded capture so long – perhaps one more reprieve might yet be gained …

            The latch had barely clicked home before he heard the front door swing open, and the intruder step inside.  The sound of unwelcome shoes upon the carpet pounded like an alarum in Erik's sensitive ears.  He pressed his face to the wall and his eye to a pinhole he had placed there.  He could not yet see the uninvited guest; perhaps they paused at the doorstep and the stillness, convinced that no one was at home …

Inwardly, he knew he grasped at straws.  The house did not look like one uninhabited, and he had left candles burning.  Anyone could see this place was anything but abandoned …

            But not even he could have expected what happened next.

             "Erik?" called a voice – the voice of a woman that he would know anywhere, no matter how much time or space or grief separated them.  "Erik, are you here?"

            If he breathed he did not know it, for every fiber of his concentration was bent on willing her to step into the room, to move to where he could see her.  Slowly, still calling out, she did … "I know there's _someone_ here!"

            _It isn't her, raged one small portion of his mind, refusing to surrender as did the rest of his senses to drown in all the sounds and images that equaled her.  _It couldn't be … she can't have … returned to me …__

            But it was Christine, and she was walking this way – of course – _her old room!_

            It was all he could do to shy away from the hidden door, even as she touched the secret switch on the other side and admitted herself into his hiding place.  The door swung back, the light from the Louis-Phillipe room spilled into the dimmed bedchamber, and though it tried to draw her eye to the whiteness of his mask, she directed her gaze straight into his mismatched eyes.

             "Erik," she whispered.  "They told me you had gone …"

             "They said the same of you," he said simply, surprised to hear how calm and neutral his voice seemed, when in truth his heart was being torn in a thousand different directions by the sudden convergence of every hope and horror.  She was here – and though he had nearly died of grief when she had gone, he was not entirely sure now that he would wish her back again.  Everything had suddenly turned for the better …

            Christine felt as though she were choking; breath and words were hard to come by.  She had rushed into the cellars hoping to disprove Belinda and Yvonne's fears, and thereby prove to herself that what Meg had told her was truth – that Erik was indeed and inexorably gone.  But now that they stood, staring at each other in disbelief, it was more than him she faced; she was overpowered by waves of emotion, of years spent trying to push both her fear and her fond memories of him from her mind, of shock and confusion and a thousand questions she wanted to ask.

            He was looking at her, waiting for her to speak and fearing she would not – for the Christine he had known had been all sorrowful, confused silence, and he felt the old responses reawakening in him.  The urge to reach for her was tangible …

            But she spoke.  Summoning composure in the form of her remembered aims, she forced herself to think of her daughter; and if Yvonne and Belinda had spoken true, Erik's presence here could not be for the purpose of reunion alone.  At this thought the darker memories came swirling back into her mind like storm clouds, and she remembered the near madness gleaming in his eyes the night he had pulled her from the stage.  Her chest grew tight, and a new horror knifed her heart: long had she struggled to reconcile the fearsome Phantom with her gentle and beloved maestro; but now the signs could not be ignored.  He had snatched her away from the stage that night like a monster in a fairy tale; and now her darling child was missing, last seen in the cellars …

            "Where is Elaine, Erik?" she asked suddenly, panic honing the words to a sharper edge than she had truly intended.

            For a moment he barely took meaning from the words, for the sound of her voice was as affective as it had always been.  Perhaps she would never know that her voice had controlled him as well … and now it was truly something to behold.  Even the brief syllables she had uttered had shown him that time had changed her, aged her – not in body, for she was still as lovely – but in soul.  Her voice was no longer the fragile strain it had once been; it seemed to have been tempered by some great force, rendering it as strong and yet flexible as a Toledo blade.  His inward ear applauded the change … but then, suddenly, he registered what she had said.

             "Elaine?" he whispered, his eyes narrowing.  "How …"

            He did not need to finish his question, for her name conjured the memory of her face, and suddenly he knew.  Of course she had effortlessly captured his heart!  She had her father's golden curls, but her eyes were possessed of her mother's charm.  And who, he thought – yes, who else in all the world could be so careless with a beloved one than this woman, who had been both his redemption and his destruction?  "So you've come for her at last, have you?"

            His question puzzled her; it seemed suspicious, even angry.  "Where is she?" she demanded again, growing frightened – she would never forget his anger.

             "She is not here," he answered coolly.  

            Those few syllables ignited in Christine's mind with blinding panic.  "But she _was_!" she cried, clenching her hands into fists lest she lose her senses and pummel him.  "Oh, I might have known – what have you done with my child?"

            For the first time in his life, Erik was glad of the mask; its coldness, its inertia lent to him a sense of power in the face of such a painful accusation.  "How dare you?" he said, his words like daggers of ice.  "Am I still such a monster in your eyes, Christine?  Do you actually thing I would hurt a child?"

            But nothing could quash Christine's maternal fury.  "_Tell me where she is!_" she shrieked, flying at him.

            He caught her before she ever touched him, and not gently; seizing her wrists and pinning them to her sides, he stared down at her with barely concealed rage.  His eyes were like whirlpools of hatred.  "She is safe," he hissed, "safer than she ever was with you, or whatever fool to whom you trusted her care.  Do you know how I found her, Christine?  Crumpled at the bottom of a stone staircase, senseless, hurt, and abandoned!  Left to lie in the damp and dark of the fourth cellar, to die of shock or hunger!"

            These words seemed to pierce through the veil of Christine's fury; her eyes still raged and her lips trembled, but he felt some of the tension leave her limbs.  He threw her roughly from him.

             "_What have I done with her?  _Only saved her from your neglect – only carried her to a place that was comfortable, only nursed her hurts, only fed her, kept her warm and safe!  Only resolved to find her family and return her to them!"

             "She has been missing for two weeks," Christine seethed, what remained of her anger struggling to overpower the guilt that was rising like a gorge in her throat.  If what he was saying was true … "Two weeks you kept her – just when were you going to return her?"

            He turned from her in disgust. "As soon as she was well enough to be moved," he retorted; "her leg was broken, and in several places!  No, don't ask how hurt she was, nor how her health is now – I'll tell you.  She'll walk again, in time; she was lucky I found her in time to set the bones.  Lucky that _I _found her before _you _did – she'd never have survived this long without care."  He regarded her with pure contempt.  "What an attentive mother you are, Christine.  Look to your own conduct before you question mine.  Where were _you all this time your child was missing?"_

            Tears were rising now in Christine's eyes; there was no doubting what he said.  For now that the waves of her anger had receded she could not but confess – whatever else he was, Erik was not a liar.  "I've been in England, working to support her," she replied as evenly as she could; but something petulant and defensive crept into her tone. "I have nothing, I could not take her with me – and Meg …"

            He gave a derisive laugh.  "Is _that who you left to care for her?  I wouldn't trust a cat to Meg Giry, if she hasn't the sense not to allow it to run about the Opera unchecked.  Yet it is __I, who cared for Elaine in her injury, who has earned your censure."_

            Christine's throat constricted, and again the guilt rose. "Erik ... I'm sorry," she croaked, the words scratching her ears like sandpaper.  

            Pretending to be lost in contemplation of the darkened room behind him, he made an offhand reply.  "Sorry for what, Christine?  Suspecting me of a crime unspeakable in its cruelty – of harming an innocent child?  No apologies necessary – I understand completely, of course.  With my brutal nature … with all the horrors I inflicted on others …"  He whirled on her suddenly.  "On you …"

            She flinched and turned her face away.  "Please don't ..." 

             "Don't what?" he prompted angrily.  "Don't defend myself against a baseless charge, when it's you who are the criminal?  Yes, you," he insisted to her reaction of indignation, "you who alone know my capacity for love, for kindness, could accuse me in this way?  I might have steeled myself to your tears, never lifted you to fame and glory; I might never have released you to follow your own heart, while I rotted in a basement.  I might never have carried Elaine here to heal in warmth and comfort, or sent her above ground again to a friend whose house admits the sunshine!  But I have done all of this, and still you treat me as a _thing, _worthy only of your revulsion."

            For a moment he was silent, and Christine felt as though she were drowning in a churning sea.  "Erik," she managed to choke out, but her weak protest only gained another icy blast of his anger.

             "Or is it 'please don't show you the door'?  You couldn't wait to leave the last time you were here, Christine; and now the way out is just behind you.  I suggest that you use it."

             "No!" she cried, even as he stepped toward her, took her by the elbow and guided her through to the Louis-Phillipe room.  "Elaine …"

             "I will return her to you," he snapped, "and perhaps if God is merciful, you will find her safe.  One can never be certain with the likes of me."  At the doorstep he released her.  "Go," he said, simple and cold.  "I have no further _use for you."_


	8. Chapter 8

**Homecoming**

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 8**

             "I should have known," Nadir said softly when Erik's tidal wave of a tale was done.  "I thought of Mademoiselle Daae when I saw her …"

            Erik waved aside Nadir's remark.  "It doesn't matter," he said bitterly; but Nadir noticed that he modulated his tone carefully, and seemed to keep one eye upon the door behind which Elaine lay asleep.  "I don't fault you, Nadir, or even myself; no one but _she _should bear the blame of it.  It is all _her doing."_

            Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Nadir considered the story Erik had told him.  "Perhaps she is to be somewhat pitied," he ventured.  "Perhaps she came as soon as she was able … it is some distance, you know …"

             "Yes, and I'm sure that _Madame le Vicomtesse could not afford to speed the journey," Erik retorted caustically. _

             "What reason have you to doubt her poverty?" Nadir inquired, one eyebrow arching.  "She told you she had nothing."

             "What reason have you_ to believe her?" he snapped.  "I myself don't doubt her ability to spin a pretty story."_

            Nadir bowed his head a moment, sorry for what he had been unable to communicate to his friend sooner.  "I know at least the basis for her claim to be true," he said finally.

            Erik fixed him with a look that reminded Nadir of an opium addict's: it was a greedy look, one of desperation, of concurrent love and loathing for the thing for which the body clamored and yet which brought only slow and painful death.  

             "Tell me what you know," he said finally.

            Nadir sighed and repeated what he had read in the newspapers months ago.  "I don't usually read the society columns – you know they are full of nothing but tripe – but it was the obituaries that led me there."  Carefully, he related what he had been able to glean from between the lines of the articles: the Vicomte's philandering, drunkenness and death, and Christine's subsequent poverty.  "They made mention of a child, now that I recall it," he confessed; "but her name was not printed, and it had not occurred to me that Elaine might be that child – until tonight."

            Erik said nothing, and Nadir spoke again to fill the anxious silence.  "She was attempting to reconstruct a career in England, I believe.  News of her successes there did reach Paris, and were given brief treatment in our papers as well."  Still Erik made no reply, nor even met Nadir's gaze.  The Daroga cleared his throat.  "I am sorry I did not tell you sooner, Erik, but I thought it for the best … You did not seem inclined to speak of her."

             "No," he finally replied, flatly.  "I was not."  Rising from his chair, he began to pace the room; his expression was distracted.  "I must confess some degree of guilty satisfaction … to hear that de Chagny led her a merry life …"

             "Are you still so angry?" Nadir asked gently.  "Or do you speak from your injury, rather than your true feelings?"

             "I did not ask for your analysis," Erik snapped.  "Even if I had, whatever cursory knowledge you possess of psychology can hardly be sharp enough to dissect _me_."

             "I know little of that science," was Nadir's cool reply, "but I flatter myself with the belief that I understand you well.  This is more than simply disbelieving her story.  What wounds you so?"

            The Daroga's retort seemed to effect him, for he sighed and shook off the mantle of anger in which he had wrapped himself.  "She is so different," he said.  "Her voice, her eyes have changed, and to hear her speak of Elaine, one would think that she had finally learned what it is to live for what is present, and to love that which is hers …"  He passed a distracted hand across his forehead.  "But the same suspicion, the same judgment in her voice tonight – I can't stop it reverberating in my ears."

             "Think of how it must have been for her –" Nadir said, almost beseechingly – "to hear from across hundreds of miles that her child had been lost in the bowels of the Opera.  Surely you must see how a mother's worst fear might have driven her true knowledge of you from her mind."  He paused and peered at Erik, trying to gauge the effect of his words.  "And have you not done the same, in the darkness since she went away?  In your hurt, have you not taught yourself to fault her alone for what happened, when you know that you were both to blame?"

            Erik said nothing, continuing his pacing; but he paused near the pile of things he had brought with him, and drew from a portfolio a sketchbook.  As he flipped its pages, Nadir saw the drawings shift in subject: while the beginning pages were dominated by copies of Christine's face, these gave way quite suddenly to likenesses of Elaine.  "She accused me of stealing her child," he said.  His voice was low, but its edge was hard.

            "She was panicked," Nadir countered carefully, "and standing in the very room where you had once forced upon her an impossible choice.  Can you not forgive her a mistake, and ask her to forgive your own?"

            "Apologies," Erik spat, shutting the sketchbook sharply, "what good can they do?  I know the worth of her apology, Nadir – she offered it to me tonight, a pale and sickly thing without an ounce of real sincerity.  It doesn't matter – I know her true feelings.  Defend her if you will; it makes no difference, for I could see the truth in her eyes, feel it in her manner.  For all that has changed for her, _I _alone have not; she still thinks I am a monster, an abhorrent creature with blind urges to hurt and destroy ..."

            "Erik,"  Nadir sighed.  "Your only blindness is to your own heart. I know you love her still.  And I believe there may be some chance for reconciliation – if you can bring yourself to overcome your injured pride."

            "Rubbish," Erik snapped, resuming his pacing.  "I refuse to go on groveling at her feet; I have pled with her enough for her love, when I thought it still might be within my reach.  I will suffer for it no longer.  The time for reconciliation is past."

            The Daroga had begun to reach the end of his patience; sleep was tugging at the corners of his eyes, and he knew it would still be hours before he would be permitted rest.  "As you like," he said resignedly, rising from his chair; "I shan't keep you from your stubbornness and self-pity.  But I agreed to help you return Elaine to her family, and I refuse to keep Mademoiselle Daae from her daughter one moment longer."

            Erik never moved from where he stood brooding at the darkened window while Nadir collected Elaine; she complained drowsily when he lifted her from her small cot, but was asleep again against his shoulder before he stepped back across the threshold into the parlor.

            "Do you want to say goodbye?" he asked Erik gruffly as Darius handed him an umbrella.  A steady drizzle had begun to fall outside.

            Erik watched, stone-faced, as the drops trailed like tears across the windowpane.  "It may be better if I don't," he said.  His voice sounded taut.  

            "Erik," he rebuked him softly.  "The child cares for you as well."

            Again he fixed the Daroga with those burning eyes; then, as quickly as if he believed he might change his mind before the thing was done, he moved swiftly towards the sleeping Elaine.

            Nadir averted his eyes, knowing Erik would not want to be seen weeping.  "_Adieu, mon cheri_," he heard him whisper fiercely to the child, and he saw the corners of her mouth curl into a smile; but she never woke, even when Erik trailed his graceful fingers across her bedraggled ringlets.

            It was hours before Christine could speak; she had burst across the Giry's doorstep in tears, and as soon as the former ballet mistress had offered her an armchair by the fire she had thrown herself into it and begun to sob stormily.  Long after Meg returned home, she continued to weep and would not be consoled.

            "What happened?" Meg hissed to her mother as they both leaned over the fire to check the progress of the water in the teakettle.

            "She has told me nothing," Madame Giry replied; "do you not know?"

            "I left her for the performance … I returned to a hasty note …"

            Presently Christine's hysteria passed, but though she numbly accepted the proffered cup of tea she mutely shook her head at the Girys' questions.  She was pained, pained to her very heart, and she ached as though she had been punched full of holes.  Whether it was her continued separation from Elaine or Erik's chilly words that hurt her more she could not say; the memory of each brought a fresh flow of tears.  That Erik could have been so kind to her child, and that she could have insulted him so! – for she knew now that she had been wrong, most horribly wrong, to accuse him as she had.  She knew more of him than that …

            And yet, where was her daughter!  For he had said he would bring her, and he had not; the minutes drew by painfully and still Elaine did not reappear.  

Over and over the Girys pressed her for an explanation, but when she opened her lips no words would form on them; nor could she eat the dinner they placed before her, although she had not eaten since that morning and her stomach gnawed with hunger.       She shook her head in silence; she could not eat, nor even bear to draw breath, was she so aggrieved.

            Slowly the hour grew late, and though Madame Giry assumed her most maternal tone Christine could not be bullied into bed.  "I am tired," she confessed hoarsely, "but I cannot sleep …"

            "Please, Christine," Meg beseeched her, kneeling at her friend's elbow, "won't you please tell us what has happened?"

            Again she shook her head, and tears prickled at the corners of her eyes; but a sudden knocking at the door jarred them all.  Christine, a moment ago so catatonic, was on her feet in half a moment; Erik's name formed on her lips, but she bit it back, and her eyes bored desperately into Madame Giry's grim little black-clad form as it drew the door ajar.

             "It is late for visitors, Monsieur," she said cautiously to the shadowy figure that greeted her. 

             "My sincerest apologies, Madame," replied the Daroga of Mazanderan, stepping closer that the firelight spilling through the door might illuminate his precious cargo; "but I did not think my errand should have been delayed."

             "_Mon Dieu_!" exclaimed Madame Giry, and pulled the door wide at once to admit the Persian; Meg flew to his side to relieve him of the valise he carried, and Christine, though hear heart twisted cruelly to discover that Erik had not come himself, still nearly overpowered him in her frenzy to hold her child.  Weakened, she could not support Elaine's weight; she sank to the floor with the child cradled in her arms.

             "Elaine, Elaine!" she wept into her tousled hair, caring nothing for the visitor who turned his face away in discomfiture at the extremity of her emotion.

             "Mama?" queried the child, opening her drowsy eyes.

             "_Mon couer, _my darling," Christine cried, clasping Elaine to her breast and rocking her furiously.  "I have missed you so …"

             "I missed you too, Mama," Elaine murmured in a tone of mingled sleepiness and confusion; "but … where is Monsieur Erik?"

            Where the small house had come suddenly alive at Elaine's sudden reappearance, these words shocked it again into silence.  In Madame Giry's face there was a glimmer of comprehension, but Meg's begged for an answer; and though she turned to Christine, she stubbornly refused to meet Meg's eyes.  A slight gesture, an almost imperceptible motion of the Persian's gloved fingers, asked her to be patient.  

            He had no intentions of scurrying away, for when he had taken Elaine into his arms he had assumed another burden as well; he felt charged, as if by Fate itself, to make what amends could be made from the ruins that lay between his friend and his estranged beloved.  He would remain, and offer explanations if that was what they craved, but most importantly offer counsel to Mademoiselle Daae; and he would not abandon that aim unless they forced him bodily from the house.

            Madame Giry nodded silently, thanking him for his tacit promise that explanations were forthcoming.  All eyes then returned to mother and daughter, still huddled on the floor.  Christine opened and closed her mouth, searching for an answer to Elaine's question; after a silent moment, the Daroga knelt at her side and touched the little girl's sleeve.

             "He has had me bring you home to your mother," he told her gently; and with a firm glance tried to mentally shake the floundering Mademoiselle Daae.  _Show me the strength he said you now possess, he commanded her in his thoughts; __prove to me that I do this for the sake of some future!_

            The sternness in his gaze struck Christine like an intangible hand across her cheek; drawing a deep breath she finally broke through the surface of her hysteria.  Turning her eyes back to her daughter's, she smiled faintly.  "He heard how lost I was without you, my darling, and sent you back to me.  We are at the Giry's, see?"

            Elaine's wide eyes wandered over her mother's shoulder to rest upon the Girys, who drew closer to the fire in greeting.  "Hello," Elaine said, blinking.  "But where is Erik?"

             "He is not here, child," Nadir broke in gently.

            "Why not?" Elaine persisted.  "Why isn't he here?"

             "You're home, Elaine," Christine choked out, ashamed to feel jealousy stirring in her heart.  How long since she had seen her daughter – and she asked only for Erik!  "You're home, and _I'm here …"_

             "But I want Erik!" she cried, tears threatening in her voice as she struggled to free herself from Christine's oppressive embrace.  "He didn't even say goodbye…"  The child's eyes suddenly went wide, and they darted from Meg to her mother and then to Christine.  "Is it the same as why he can't go outside?" she demanded.  "Is it because you don't want him here?"

             "Elaine, what are you saying?" Nadir asked; but Christine had regained her strength, and she drew herself up, pulling her daughter with her.

             "If you please, Monsieur …" she began; but Elaine interrupted her.

             "He told me!" she cried; "he told me people don't like his company, and that he can't go where they can see him!  But you're wrong not to want him – he's good, and kind, and he took care of me when I was hurt …"  Here Elaine burst into tears and tried to take a step; but her leg could not yet support her weight, and she cried out in pain as she stumbled forward.

            Christine caught her and lifted her again to press her to her breast.  "I'm sorry, _mon coeur," she whispered fervently into her ear.  "But it's late, and you must go to bed."  Grimly, she looked to Meg and Madame Giry; the little ballerina hurried to her own room and held the door aside for Christine, then closed it behind them._

            Once the sound of Elaine's sobbing was muffled by the closed door, Madame Giry sprang from the place on the carpet where she had been rooted throughout the recent scene, and offered the Daroga a chair.  "May I bring you anything, Monsieur?" she asked softly, moving towards the fire.  "Some tea – or something stronger?"

             "I thank you, no," he replied, although he accepted the chair gratefully.  "I must confess – I have already taken spirits this evening.  It has been quite an eventful one."

"Please, Monsieur," Meg begged him, hurrying from the bedroom door to a footstool near the hearth; "won't you tell us what has happened?  Christine … she was overwrought, she could tell us nothing …"

            The Persian heaved a weary sigh.  "I beg you will excuse me, Mademoiselle; I don't know that it is my place to tell you anything.  I have only heard the story second-hand – Mademoiselle Daae is better equipped to explain than I."

             "We shall wait for her," Madame Giry said, emerging from the shadows with bread and a bowl of warm broth.  "I beg you to take some refreshment, Monsieur; you look quite worn out."  Gratefully Nadir accepted the food, and the three sat staring dolefully into the fire, waiting for Christine to reemerge.  

            When the creaking of the hinges finally heralded her return, she seemed to move almost reluctantly into the midst of their vigilant tableau.  Christine knew the moment for explanation had finally arrived; a thousand emotions churned within her, as though she had swallowed the sea.  Elaine had not consented to be kissed goodnight, and had angrily thrust something into her mother's hand – the golden locket that had been a special gift from mother to child.  She felt battered, and at the edge of the hearthrug her feet became heavy, and she could not seem to urge herself into their circle.

Madame Giry rose, and all present recalled her days as the forbidding ballet mistress as she broke the silence.  

            "Speak, child.  Throw some light upon this dark puzzle, if you can."


	9. Chapter 9

**Homecoming**

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

**Chapter 9**

            For the Giry's sake, Christine was forced to tell more than just what had transpired tonight; for though Meg had often wondered, and Madame Giry believed she knew, Christine had never spoken to them directly concerning the connection between herself and the former Phantom of the Opera.  It was with some degree of discomfiture that she related the history she shared with Erik, for she was ever sensible of the piercing gaze of the Daroga of Mazanderan; she could not help fearing that he might interrupt her, point out her mistakes or even call her a liar.  But he did none of these things, and rather sat in deferential silence as she spoke, the only motion about him the flickering of the firelight in his dark eyes.

            Finally she reached this evening's scene, and she worked Elaine's poor locket over and over between her fingers like a rosary.  She had buried remorse beneath hysteria, all those hours that she had sat before the Giry's hearth and waited as Elaine did not return; but now that her child was asleep only a few short steps away, safe beneath a coverlet she had smoothed with her own hands, there could be no denying that the charges she had laid at Erik's door had been supremely unjust.  Elaine was not only unharmed, but in excellent health; Christine had only to glance at her leg to know that no doctor could have done any better by her injury.  But perhaps the most merciless reminder of her cruelty and thoughtlessness had come from the very mouth of her little daughter: Elaine had clearly fallen in love with Erik during her stay beneath his roof. 

             "And he cared for her," said the Persian gently, noting the prone expression in Christine's eyes as her voice trailed off.  "I believe that she has saved him, perhaps even more so than vice-versa."  For a moment he paused, allowing these words to seep into each straining ear; finally he added softly, "He is not much altered since you knew him, mademoiselle, but one change is certain: he is no longer this Phantom."

             "But how can that be?" cried Meg, who had listened so long in such silence but could hold her tongue no longer.  "If this man is – or even if he _was – the Opera Ghost …"_

             "Meg Giry," her mother interrupted, her expression stern, "you are old now to be placing such stock in the gossip of the ballet rats. As we grow we must leave behind the stories we told ourselves in youth – be they fair or frightening."  Her glance fell significantly on Christine, who listened with downcast eyes as she continued, "The Opera Ghost was a concoction of superstitious and impressionable fools, but there was never more than a grain of truth to them."

             "You knew him too, then," Nadir said quietly, sizing up the former ballet mistress with his ever-critical eye.  He had seen her often in his prowlings of the theatre, but had never spoken enough words with her to sketch her character.

             "Not well," she demurred, "but well enough to understand."

             "Your mother is wise, Mademoiselle Giry," the Daroga went on, turning his attention back to Meg.  "I assure you, Erik deceived you only somewhat; the whispers and imaginations of the cast constructed the rest of the Opera Ghost's ruse."

             "But the murders," Meg persisted.  "They were not committed by imaginations!"

             "No," Nadir confessed with a solemn nod of his head; "and on that score I can only ask you to trust me; I have known Erik for many years, and he is not a monster.  Nor has there been a single act of violence at the Opera these seven years – and he has been there all the time, mademoiselle, though none but I knew it."

             "He is right, Meg," Christine spoke up weakly.  "He's never harmed me, though I've done nothing but betray him over and over again.  I can't blame him for the things he said to me tonight; I denied him love all those years ago, and now I've stripped him of his very humanity …"  Miserable, she brought her palms to cover her face.  She thought she could weep no more, but the prickling sensation at the corner of her eyes was proving her wrong …

            Watching Christine Daae weep for the pain she had caused Erik filled Nadir with a profound sense of justice.  It was nothing like revenge – for he was a soft-hearted man, and had never wished her suffering – but rather a confirmation of all the hopes he had held tonight as he conveyed Elaine home.  The once-so-vapid Mademoiselle Daae _had_ grown up; she was now possessed of a true woman's heart.  He was touched to see it so poignantly displayed.

             "You mustn't weep," he said to her, reaching out to place his hand on the arm of her chair.  "All is not lost; you have done no harm that cannot be repaired."

            These words surprised her.  "What do you mean, monsieur?"

            The Daroga drew a sharp breath.  He had listened to Erik's countless treatises on Christine Daae's beauty, but he had never placed much stock by them; but now that she met his gaze evenly and with purpose, he could see quite plainly the change that had come over her since she had quit the Opera's stage.  Erik was right; time and motherhood had strengthened her, and her eyes were finer for it.  

             "I believe he loves you still," he replied.  "So, if you would right the wrongs of so many years ago …"

            For a moment Christine felt as though she teetered on the edge of a precipice; her mind reeled at the depth of the drop, and a hundred different emotions pressed upon her like wind.  If Erik still loved her, despite the hurt she had caused him before she was old enough to know better – despite the hurt she had caused him _after being old enough to know better – if he still loved her despite Raoul, despite time, despite everything …_

            If he loved her daughter – what other choice could she make?

            She was on her feet at once, moving with such purpose it was impossible to believe that she had so recently seemed frozen to a chair before the fire.  The swirling of her cloak recalled Erik to all those present as she clasped it around her shoulders.

             "Take me to him," she said in earnest; and moments later the Girys watched the Persian and the Vicomtesse slip away into the night.

            Once Nadir had stepped across the threshold and Darius had closed the door behind him, Erik had sunk weakly into a nearby armchair.  The hours passed slowly as he kept keen watch, and all but one lamp flickered out as he waited for the door to open again.  What he expected to happen then he could not say, for he felt as though he had lost his compass upon a stormy sea.  There was nothing left for him to fix his sight on; the clouds had blotted out the stars, and Elaine was no longer here – and so he waited for his friend to return.  

            Nadir was fond enough of offering unsolicited advice; perhaps he might make himself useful this once, and tell Erik what he ought to do next.

            So when the door creaked on its hinges and heralded Nadir's return, Erik stood and smoothed his jacket.  To shield his confusion and despair behind the familiar veneer of elegance and silence was the only comfort he could know now – and to greet Nadir with the same old formality might make some sense out of this misery …

            But the figure that slipped into the flat and paused, her eyes squinting as they adjusted to the dimness, only convinced Erik further of his decent into madness.  To see Christine now was nothing short of lunacy – to imagine her come back to him now!

            By the dim light Christine could make out only his silhouette, as stern and commanding in its rigid posture and dress as it had ever been.  For a moment the bony hand of fear clutched at her throat – _he will dismiss me again, just as he did this evening! _– for he stood profiled by the solitary lamp, and she could not even see his eyes to search them for the hint of love she needed to cement her resolve.  But the memory of Elaine's tears … yes, that was a source of strength and resolve, too.

             "Erik," she said softly, moving towards him in the gloom, "I've come to say something to you …"

            Her voice sliced through the comfortable fantasy that he had lost his mind; for even in the throes of his misery – of missing her – he had never been able to recreate her voice with any accuracy in his inner ear.  There had always been something missing: some tiny detail, one solitary shade that he had neglected to memorize in the tapestry of her voice had always eluded him, mocked him, reminded him that he had never possessed her as fully as he might have wished.  In that moment, as he realized that she really did stand before him, he wished for his cloak; he knew how easily he could have drawn it close, to protect himself from whatever final hurt or insult she had come to impart … "Yes," he said softly, and so icily that it even stung _his_ mouth to speak so; "did you find a hair of Elaine's head out of place?  Some torturer's mark upon her?"

            She seemed unwilling to acknowledge the retort, for she raised her voice slightly to speak over him. "… and I will say it, no matter how hard you may try to prevent me."

             "Then please, speak," Erik replied smoothly, concealing his vague surprise at this assertiveness behind his modulated tone.  "After all, I have never denied you the chance to do or say what you would."

             "Haven't you?"  Christine's strength was flagging; she was too used to the Erik who would have moved the foundations of the Earth to please her, to spar with this cool and angry man who stood before her.  "Why just today, you allowed injured pride to stand in the way of an apology honestly offered."

             "Oh," he said with a soft chuckle, "can you mean to say that, in the midst of all the insults you hurled at me this afternoon, there was an apology hidden?"

             "There is one in the offing even now," she retorted, "in the midst of all _these _insults."

             "Enough."  A few quick strides brought Erik to the table where the lamp stood, and with a swift motion of his wrist he turned the flame up high.  "Why have you come here, Christine – or a better question yet might be, how did you find this place?  I certainly extended no invitation to you …"

             "It was I that showed her the way," came Nadir's coal-soft voice from the doorway.  Erik started – he had not noticed his friend traveling in Christine's shadow; but then he bristled.  That Nadir would have offered him sanctuary – and then admitted to that safe space the very cause of all his injury!

            Nadir caught and raised a hand to head off the onslaught of Erik's anger.  "I had visions of myself returning from my errand," he said, "and of your asking my counsel on your next steps.  I simply anticipated you, Erik – I brought to you my answer."  And with these words he took a backward step across the threshold, closed the door behind him and surrendered his house to be the stage of reunion.  He was tired to his very bones – but he had spent sleepless nights before for the call of duty; and Erik commanded more of his loyalty than the Shah-in-Shah ever had.

            Christine and Erik stood meekly in the silence that followed Nadir's exit, each trying to wrap their minds around what he had said.  "Your friend is too kind," she said at last, her voice like the timid tapping at the door of a friend with whom reconciliation is long overdue.

             "Yes," Erik replied vaguely, barely remembering to infuse his words with acid; "he has always had a weakness for pathetic creatures."

             "Erik, please."  Her tone was suddenly even and resolute, almost palpable as a firm and gentle hand upon his arm.  Oddly, it made him think of Mademoiselle Perrault, that solemn and steadfast lady who had _not_ been his mother – oh, but how he had _wished …!_

            He lifted his troubled gaze to meet hers, and found it waiting for him with a steadiness he had never known Christine to possess; it was unnerving, and behind the mask his lips began to tremble.  "What is it you want of me?" he asked softly, all his anger and his bitterness falling away to reveal the weariness which is always the last result of anguish.

            He sounded broken, and it tore at  Christine's heart to hear it – and even more so to know that she had been the cause of it, with all her cruel innocence and indecision.  Stepping closer, she nearly held out her arms to him – but she stopped herself, knowing he would never warm to what he believed to be pity or melodrama.  "To mend this hurt," she said simply; "or, if it cannot be mended, then at least to make you see the depth of my regret.  I am sorry, Erik – for everything – everything I did not know, but _should have …"_

            Inside the pocket of her cloak, Christine's fingers encountered something – Elaine's locket, which had been returned to her anger, now gave her the strength to press on.  "But most of all, I am sorry for not owning what it took the eyes of a child to see – your great heart, your kindness and compassion."  He turned a half-step away, but she could sense his tension giving way, and she grew bolder.  Her feet carried her right to his side, and her fingers reached for but just barely missed brushing his sleeve.  "Thank you for my child, Erik, and forgive me my cruel thoughtlessness.  I was overcome with worry, but I was wrong to lash out at you."

            Still he said nothing, and Christine's heart began to sink.  She had said all she knew to say; now there was only to accept what decision this silence forbore.  Turning away, she took a stumbling step towards the door; but as she fumbled for her gloves she remembered what she carried.  "Will you take this?" she asked, extending her fingers and letting the tiny necklace cascade from between them.  "I am sure Elaine would want you to have something to remember her by."

            His eyes caught the trinket dangling before him, and seemed to take on a bit of its radiance; what Christine could see of his face began to awaken from its shock and silence.  "Her locket," he whispered, reaching his own delicate fingers towards the treasure.  "I mended it for her …"

             "Did you?" she asked, her heart leaping to life again to hear him speak without malice, and with the undertone of love and wonder that she recognized – and only now realized that she missed …

             "One of the ballet rats took it from her and hurled it into the cellars," he said warmly, remembering the golden child.  "She went bravely after it, but took her fall … I suppose it led her to me."

             "And she led us to each other," Christine added breathlessly, impetuously.  "Erik – if you can mend something as tiny and frivolous as a golden chain, can you find it in your heart to mend something far more precious – a tie between two hearts, that should never have been broken?"

            He looked at her in pure surprise; but the unexpectedness of her words and of the sincerity behind them had punched a hole in his untouchable façade, and from it a tiny trickle of love began to flow.  Yes, he admitted to himself; in time he would forgive her.  He had already begun … he could not help himself.

            But perhaps it was best – _not _to tell her just now, lest she think him slavish.  No, perhaps better to wait a time …

            In the end, he gave her his hands in friendship, and she clung tightly to them as the carriage trundled through the rainy streets towards the Giry's.  He had not opened his arms to her either, but she knew now that she could not have expected it; it was too soon, and the wounds still too deep.  And for now she could be content to ride with his hands in hers, to talk with him about the possibility of her remaining in Paris to perform – and with his willingness to sit beside her at her daughter's bedside.  In the morning the rain would give way to sunshine; and Elaine would wake to the two who loved her most in the world.

            And then the healing would begin.

             "Well, this is wonderful news!"  Andre beamed the next morning, relief stamped all over his insipid face.  "Firmin and I are _delighted_ to hear of the child's safe return."

            "Of course, there will be no suit, Mademoiselle Giry?"  Firmin inquired.  His eyes, while expressing relief at this piece of good news, seemed also to be calculating how much it would take to keep this tomfoolery from becoming a complete scandal in the avenues of Paris.  "I can hardly see how it is the Opera Garnier's fault that a small child got lost inside it – especially when it is not an orphanage that we are running here, but a place of business ..."

            Meg Giry's eyes snapped with fire, but she kept her voice smugly even.  "I am not the child's mother, messieurs.  You will have to take that up with her – I do believe that you will be seeing much of her in the near future." 

            The matching looks of confusion that adorned the manager's faces would soon give way to one of consternation; for Meg bestowed upon each of them a black-edged envelope emblazoned with an all-too-familiar hand.  The notes detailed, among other things, the Opera Ghost's dismay at the shambles the theatre had become in his long absence, and contained explicit instructions for the reinstatement of Christine Daae as _prima donna.  Lucia Trevezant, after all, was not fit even to sing over a steaming tub in the Opera's laundry …_

            Meg stifled a giggle and turned on her heel, and in an unconscious imitation of her mother, sailed out of the room on a wave of dignity.

            Firmin jumped to his feet a second too late. "Mademoiselle Giry!  Half a moment!"  But she was gone, and the two were alone with their wide-eyed dismay – and the once-again-palpable presence of _OG in the office …_

            "I think I need a drink,"  Firmin gasped.

             "That might be a good idea,"  Andre replied, one trembling hand reaching for the brandy decanter.

**_Fin_**


End file.
